


The Case of The Boy & The Soldier

by WhatLocked



Series: The William Watson Case Files [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awww...Mycroft does care, Biscuits sooth over everything, Blanket Forts, Butterflies, Case Fic, Dinosaurs, Don't anger Mrs Hudson, Dr John knows everything, Establishing relationships, Fruity-bix are the best cereal EVER, Gen, Goodbyes and farewells, Greg deserves a medal sometimes, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but Dr Seuss isn't a real doctor, I want Mrs Hudson to be my Landlady!, If you have ever had the Timmy Time theme stuck in your head then you will feel Sherlocks pain!, John will always save Sherlocks life, Kid-fic, Mycroft is a sneaky and controlling git, Mycroft overlooked something small but important, Nightmares and Warm Milk, Not team Mycroft, Sherlocks POV, Small Child under the care of Consulting Detective, Sneaky Mycroft, Swans, Teeny-tiny bit of Mystrade, The fat man is surprisingly easy to subdue, Tom Bomabil - the keeper of secrets, Violence, William is team Sherlock!, William may be a bit OCD...or just very particular, alternative first meetings, and apparently Lestrade too, bastards, because Sherlock has the life preservation skills of an easily lead lemming, because that's what he does, brief descriptions of violence, butterfly cocoons, kitchen surgery, lisping, lunch does not four thumbs make, mean boys, mentions of bullying, metal boxes, not the nice Holmes parents depicted in the TV show, tantrums, trex's, which makes Mycroft smug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8091709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: When one William Watson wanders into the life of one Sherlock Holmes, claiming that his daddy has been taken by bad men, Sherlock finds himself caught up in a rather intriguing case of not only locating the boys father but also in discovering a side of himself that he never knew existed.





	1. Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~

It was the prickling one gets from the fine hairs on the back of their neck standing up, when they know they are being watched, which was what pulled Sherlock Holmes from his sleep.  For a few brief seconds he laid still, giving no outward indication that he was awake, as he took in as much information as he could with his eyes closed.  

The person was on the other side of the bed, by the door, crouched low.  The light, yet slightly accelerated breathing indicated that of lungs belonging to a healthy person of a smaller stature.  The amount of light that could be gaged from behind closed eye lids and the amount of noise coming from the street outside his window indicated early morning.  No later than 715, yet no earlier than 645.  The faint scent was not overly familiar - exhaust, dirt and something artificially sweet…bubblegum? The fact that the bed didn’t feel any different and was not moving indicated that the intruder, clearly _not_ his landlady, was standing, (or crouching if the direction of the faint breathing was anything to go by), next to the bed and not actually on it.  That was a bonus he supposed.  

After deciding that he could not glean any more information from laying there, pretending to be asleep, Sherlock Holmes slowly opened his eyes and the sight that met him was so unexpected that with a small, yet undignified cry he jolted back and tumbled off of the mattress and onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed as the small _child_ that was currently staring at him.

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed up from the ground and mimicked the small persons pose of only showing the top half of his face over the side of the mattress, all though, to be fair to the child it is possible that that was as far as its body could stretch.  

Across from him was a boy.  A small, blonde boy, with wide navy blue eyes.  His messy curls were sticking up every which way, there was dirt smeared on his face and what looked like dried snot stretched from his left nostril and up across his cheek.  He appeared to be four, maybe five years old, but Sherlock couldn’t be certain as he really didn’t have much to do with children at all.  Tear tracks on his cheeks indicated that he had been crying and, judging by the dark marks under his eyes, hadn’t slept recently.  

Obviously this boy was not where he was supposed to be and in some form of distress.  Logical conclusion: Lost. 

Now Sherlock had to find out where he _should_ be so he could promptly return him and get rid of the unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty that was spiralling up his spine.  It was time to get some answers, and in order to do that, he was going to have to ask some questions.

“Who are you?” Was the first thing Sherlock asked.  A fair question he thought, since the last thing he expected to see, upon waking up, when he fell asleep last night was a small child of whom he had never laid eyes on before.

“William” Was the timid reply as small fingers crept up over the edge of the mattress and gripped tightly onto the sheet.  Sherlock noticed the scrapes on his small fist and the dirt under his nails.

“How did you get in here?” Another fair question, Sherlock believed, since he was fairly certain that a child of such a young age was not skilled enough to be able to navigate a key in a lock, let alone be able to pick one, and he knows for certain that the downstairs door last night had been locked when he went to bed. 

“The door wath open.” Sherlock cringed at the lisp, pushing back unwanted memories of unsupervised school yards and unintelligent bullies and instead focused on what the boy had said.  The door was open.  What door?  His door, likely - he never shut it, let alone locked it unless he wanted to keep his landlady out - or the main door, which was more than unlikely as Mrs Hudson was constantly harping on about the amount of crime lingering around these days and was for some reason convinced that the black door adorning the front of their building, staying shut when not in use, was in someway a deterrent against those ‘ _thugs and hooligans that had no respect for people or their property_ ’.  The more important point, though, was why this young person had decided to waltz in through the door, regardless of which one it was, unannounced, unsupervised or uninvited.  The most expedient way to get the answer, Sherlock decided, was to just ask.  Sherlock raised his head a bit further above the mattress and with a frown and pursed lips he asked “Do you often just wander into random homes and stare at sleeping strangers.  Surely your parents have told you the danger of engaging with people of whom you are not familiar.”

“My daddy told me to run” the little boy said softly, and although Sherlock could still only see the top half of the child’s face he just knew that his bottom lip was trembling.  “He thaid to go and find thomeone and to call the polith.”

At this Sherlocks interest perked up and he raised his body so that he was resting his elbows on the mattress and leaning towards the small boy on the other side of the bed, his frown now a look of intrigue.  A potential case, and possibly one with promise.

“And where is your daddy now?”  

“In the car with the bad men.  He got me out and told me to run tho fatht and tho far.  He thaid not to thtop running until I found help.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the way moisture seemed to be collecting in the boys eyes and the way that his voice wobbled while relaying his answer.  Instead he decided to get more information about the man who had, by the sounds of it, been abducted.  “And, who is your father?” he asked and then watched as the small face in front of him screwed up, obviously trying to ward of the tears that were threatening to fall and failing.

Through determined sobs, William managed to get out, “Hith name ith Doctor John Watthon and he ith a thoilder.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces a big problem of his own, Lestrade brings help of the most useless kind and Mrs Hudson has biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it appears that Tuesday is my posting day and because today is Tuesday, I shall post another chapter and here it is. Chapter 2. Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

“Would you believe that there are eight John Watsons currently residing in London at the moment and two of them served in the army?” was Lestrades greeting as he stepped into the living room of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, William squashed up against his side and gripping on to his arm for dear life.  Despite the boys small size, Sherlock was sure there was going to be bruises where his small fingers dug in when he looked later.  The DI was looking at Sherlock with a bemused sort of grin on his face at Sherlocks current predicament.  Sherlock decided to ignore him for the time being and instead observe the other person with him.  The stern looking woman behind him was obviously Child Services.  _Late thirties; married; has a cat; caught the tube to work; drinks green tea and is a vegetarian (should probably start taking Iron supplements_ ); _uninteresting; is only here for one reason and that is to take this vice like human away and place him somewhere more child appropriate._

 Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade.  “Well, obviously you have narrowed it down to one John Watson as you only have one file in your hand.  Judging by the lack of content, he is a rather dull, law abiding citizen.  Let me guess.  The other Mr Watson wasn’t a doctor.”

“Right in one” The detective confirmed striding over and handing Sherlock the folder.  With the hand that was not currently having its circulation cut off, he reached out and took the file, opening it up on his lap.

“Is that you father?” Sherlock asked the boy, indicating to the photo, paper-clipped to the first page in the folder.  Suddenly the boy started wailing causing an array of different reactions.  

Sherlock muttered “I will take that as a yes.”

Lestrade huffed out a “Jesus, Sherlock, maybe a bit of delicacy, yeah?”

Mrs Hudson tittered in from the kitchen, tea towel slung over her shoulder going on about _just getting the poor lad settled, not fifteen minutes ago._

The social worker stepped forward and placed her hand on the boys wrist, trying to detach him from Sherlocks arm.  This just made things worse.  The boy held even tighter, actually causing Sherlock to wince, and his wails got louder as he kicked out at the woman in front of him.  She stepped back out of reach, sensibly so.

“I didn’t think Stockholm set in this quick” Lestrade gibed light heartedly.  Sherlock shot him a dirty glare and Mrs Hudson sat on the other side of William and produced a biscuit from somewhere inside of her apron and calmed him down with soothing words and baked sugar.  The woman had been a godsend ever since she had come up after William had started crying for the first time, enquiring as to what the noise was all about.  Still, the boy - for some reason unfathomable to the consulting detective - had latched on to him, despite his landladies motherly coddling, and hadn’t let go.

“Mr Holmes” the social worker finally said, once the only other noise in the flat was the stuttering breaths of a now sort of calm-ish William.  “It would be in every ones best interest if you could get William here to let go of your arm, so we can work on finding out if he has any family that he can go to.”

Sherlock glared up at the woman as if she had just suggest he pack up and move back home with his parents.  “Oh, really” he snapped, sarcastically.  “And here I was thinking that having a small child stuck to my side was the most efficient way to sort this case out.  Please, pray tell me, how you think I should go about getting him to let go, because I can guarantee you, everything I have tried from reasoning, to bribing and even insulting” (this earned him daggers from his landlady, before she went back to fondly ruffling the boys hair once more) “has done nothing to get him to even lessen the grip that is currently around my arm, much less encourage him to let go completely.”

“Sherlock” Lestrade warned.  “Ms Green here is only trying to help the boy.”

Sherlock turned his glare onto Lestrade.  “Well, clearly, she needs to try a different approach.”

Turning her attention from Sherlock _Ms Green_ dropped her stern glare and her features softened into something quite possibly soothing as she squat down in front of William and tried to engage him in eye contact.  It didn’t work.  It just caused the boy to push his face against Sherlocks dressing gown clad arm and the man screwed his nose up as he felt bodily fluids of one sort or another, seep through the material and onto his arm.

“William” she gently coaxed.  “William, my name is Helen.  I am here to take you home.”

Again, this seemed to be the wrong approach as suddenly William scrambled off of the couch and onto Sherlocks lap, his grip finally leaving his arm, only to be replaced by the boy clamping his arms a tightly around Sherlocks torso as possible, while at the same time screaming ” _No, no, no, no, no”_ the words muffled as he pushed his face into Sherlocks chest and Sherlock experienced yet another set of bodily fluids soaking through yet another item of clothing but Sherlock didn’t scrunch his nose up at it this time.  This time he threw his most insolent glare he could summon at the woman in front of him.

“Gavin, do you think it would be possible to find someone to work with William that does not send him into a state of agitation and panic every time they open their mouth.”

“Mr Holmes” the woman before him snapped, causing William to push his face even harder into Sherlocks chest.  “I can assure you that I know what I am doing.”

Due to the fact that her voice was gradually getting louder throughout the sentence William started whimpering quietly.

“Evidence proves otherwise” Sherlock all but snarled and then turned to Lestrade.  “I want her out of here, now” he snapped and then stood up, supporting the child who held on for dear life, and stalked to the kitchen, Mrs Hudson trailing behind, coming up behind him with yet another biscuit and Sherlock made a mental note to swipe her apron every now and then just to raid it for baked goods.

Quiet, yet harsh murmurings could be heard from the lounge room and then there was a sound of angry, sensible shoes making their way down the stairs shortly followed by the front door opening and then slamming shut.  After another few seconds the detective inspector wandered in to join them in the kitchen, and looking pointedly at Sherlock said, “So, do you want to run this over with me, right from the beginning?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets a rundown on what has happened at 221 B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it is Tuesday, (okay, it's actually Wednesday, but only by 24 minutes), so it must be posting day! And since it is posting day, here is another little chapter! Hope you all enjoy! :D

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock walked back into the living room and settled back onto the couch, trying to extricate himself from Williams grasp, but with no such luck.  Instead he sunk back against the back of the couch and let out a weary sigh, while Mrs Hudson headed back downstairs and Lestrade made himself comfortable in the red arm chair that sat across from Sherlocks usual one.

“Fine” he moaned resignedly.  “From the beginning.”

Sherlock recounted the events leading up to that very moment, starting from when he had woken up to find William Watson staring at him from the edge of the bed.  It wasn’t until Mrs Hudson had come up to find out what the noise was, after William had broken out into his first lot of tears that it had transpired that William must have been watching him for at least ten minutes, if not longer, before Sherlock had actually woken up.  With the aid of soothing words and freshly baked biscuits the landlady had managed to calm William down enough for Sherlock to get more information from him.  

He recounted how it had later transpired that the boy had seen the main door to 221 Baker Street open, as furniture removalists were in the process of transferring Mrs Hudson’s new sofa into apartment A.  

He had decided on going up the stairs to apartment B because he and his father lived in an upstairs apartment also.  To Sherlock this had made no sense what so ever, but Mrs Hudson had apparently found some sense in the boys logic and encouraged him to keep talking.

When Sherlock had asked what exactly happened to him and his father the second round of tears had begun and that was when Sherlock had decided that he would need specialised help, hence Lestrade being contacted.

Finally, through snot and tears and a lot of sobbing and hiccuping, William had told him that last night some bad men had come into the house and took him and his dad and put them into the back of a van and tied them up with ropes.  Williams father, John, had managed to get his son untied and when the van stopped, presumably for traffic lights, his father had managed to open the back door and pushed the boy out with whispers for him to run, so that is what he had done. 

Sherlock could only presume that this all transpired in the extremely early hours of the morning, therefore there was only minimal traffic on the road, which is why no one noticed a small boy being pushed out of a vehicle wearing what appeared to be a lizard costume.  (Lestrade quickly corrected him in telling him it was a dinosaur onesie, whatever the hell that meant.)

“Why didn’t they give chase?”  Lestrade asked.  “Surely they would have noticed the door opening and the child spilling out onto the road.”

At this William finally turned his head toward the detective.  “My daddy thaid to run fatht tho I did” he said quietly.  “And the fat man couldn’t catch me.”

Sherlock shrugged at the other man as William let out a large yawn and buried his face, once again, in Sherlocks chest.  “Apparently he hid behind bins until the sun came up and then went and looked for help, finding our door open, so I would suggest looking at CCTV footage around this area.  I doubt he could have gotten far, despite his claims of running so fast.”

The two of them looked down at the smaller person as a small, snuffled sound penetrated the silence that followed Sherlocks deduction about the abductors.  He had fallen asleep, not that his grip had loosened much.

“And when did that happen?” Lestrade asked, that amused lilt back in his voice as he nodded down at the sleeping boy against Sherlocks chest.

At this a small frown presented itself on Sherlocks face.  “When he first started crying, I figured I should make an attempt at soothing him somehow and, hoping it would shut him up, I tried rubbing his back.  The only thing it did was give him the opportunity to latch on.  He hasn’t let go since.”  Sherlock wanted to sound annoyed, haughty, disdainful, but he had a horrible feeling that it came out almost panicky.   Lestrades grin only cemented his fears.  

“Seems like you have a natural talent” the other man noted, although Sherlock could hear the laughter in his voice which is why he shot him another unamused glare.  Lestrade tried to drop the grin on his face, but he succeeded poorly.  “Right, well, I guess when he finally lets go, we can try again with Child Services.”

That only made Sherlock snort.  “Yes, because that went oh, so well the last time.”

“Well, it’s not like you helped matters any” the DI reminded him but it only got him another scowl in return.

“Everything she did made him kick out, grip tighter and cry louder, all the things I was actively trying to avoid.  I don’t know if you have noticed, Glen, but I am not exactly what you would call a child sort of person.”

“I’ll admit, she didn’t use the best approach but do you have any better ideas?  And how many times do I need to tell you, it’s GREG you berk.”

Sherlock just shrugged, Greg, Gus - bloody Gimli; at the moment it wasn’t really the big issue.  The big issue was how to detach this child from him with as little stress to all parties as possible.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft joins the gathering and makes a somewhat rather unorthodox (or completely flipping barmy) suggestion, which solicits a varied range of reactions from everyone present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's not Tuesday, but the chapter was ready and work is about to get hectic, so I thought I'd get it in early, rather than make you wait. And if work steadies out in the next few days, then think of it as a bonus for being such awesome readers! :D

~~~~~~~~~~

The answer to that question was, you can’t.  The child slept for half an hour and every time they tried to pull his arms away from Sherlock he just held on tighter.  In the time that he slept Lestrade organised for another social worker to come over while Sherlock read John Watson’s file.

There wasn’t much, at least not in this file.  A quick phone call to his brother would produce a more resourceful file, especially since the man had spent seven years in the army but as it was, all they had was an address, a clean rap sheet and a place of employment.  Not a great deal to go on and not a thing that would indicate why two men would break into his house and abduct not only him, but his son as well, in the middle of the night.

“Any mention of a wife or other family members?” Sherlock asked once Lestrade had got off the phone to Child Services.

“Not at the moment” Lestrade replied wearily.  “We are looking deeper, and have sent someone around to the house.  I am waiting for word back on that soon.”

“I want to view their flat” Sherlock told him, knowing that whoever they sent in would miss everything of importance.  Lestrade just gave a single nod.  

“What about CCTV footage?”  Sherlock asked, studying the picture of John Watson again.  He looked a lot like his son.  Same eyes, same nose and chin, same coloured hair.  William was almost a younger mirror image.

“I sent a message to Donovan.  She should be trying to chase that up now.”  Sherlock scrunched his nose up at the thought of Donovan but chose not to say anything,  Lestrade knew his views of that particular sergeant.  He didn’t need to hear it again.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.  “That will be the social worker” Lestrade commented, but as soon as Mrs Hudson answered the door Sherlock knew different.  With a frustrated frown he corrected the detective inspector. 

“No” he spat, almost maliciously.  “That would be my interfering brother.”  Not even five seconds later the elder Holmes brother stepped into his home, three piece suit perfectly in place, umbrella gently clutched in his hand.

“Detective Inspector, Brother” he greeted, nodding to each man respectively.

“Mycroft” Lestrade returned pleasantly at the same time Sherlock said “Piss off, Mycroft.”  His brother just smiled at the both of them and then strolled over and made himself comfortable in Sherlocks chair.  Sherlock only frowned harder.  It was around then that William started to stir.

“What do you want, Mycroft” Sherlock hissed, trying not to disturb the child, still seated in his lap, anymore than he had been.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow in that condescending way that he had as if to ask, _Do you really need to ask, brother?_

Sherlock sent him a pointed glare that said _Yes, because I know it irritates you._

So with a sigh Mycroft explained the reason for his visit.  “What did you really expect, when I get alerted that Child Services have been called to your flat, twice, in the space of an hour.”

“I didn’t expect anything because it is none of your damn business, Mycroft” Sherlock bit back.  “When I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”  It appeared that William had slept all that he was going to as at that point he turned his face from where it was pushed against Sherlocks t-shirt, to look at the newcomer.  He was obviously, and to Sherlocks delight, unimpressed with what he saw as he gave a stern frown and then turned his face the other way.  Sherlock suddenly found himself thinking that he could actually come to like this child.  

It was at this point, much to Sherlocks chagrin, that Lestrade decided to temporarily halt the brothers stand off and explained all that had transpired, right down to the fact that William had taken a rather intense liking to Sherlock.  This pulled an irritated frown from Sherlock and an amused look from Mycroft.  Well, as much as Mycroft can look amused when he has a permanent look of constipated arrogance on his face.

“Don’t look so smug, brother, I can assure you this anomaly shan’t last” Sherlock told his brother, just as the doorbell sounded downstairs.

“That would be Child Services” Mycroft announced cooly, taking his pocket watch out of his pocket and observing the time before replacing it.

“Please, don’t let us hold you up” Sherlock said, observing his brothers face as he looked at the time.  Unfortunately, there was no trace of him worrying about having to be elsewhere.  That didn’t stop him from conveying how much he would be pleased at having his brother leave.  “Feel free to remove yourself from these proceedings any time now.”  As predicted, Mycroft sat tight, ignoring Sherlock instead thanking the detective inspector for bringing him up to speed on the mornings events.  

Not two minutes after hearing the doorbell ring, two sets of feet made their way up to Sherlocks flat and before long Mrs Hudson was guiding a young woman into the flat, _late twenties; single; bitten down nails - worried about something outside of work; too thin - has been skipping meals to try and keep thin; slept in - wearing yesterdays clothes; appears friendlier than the previous attempt, yet still has an air of determination about her.  May possibly be successful_.  Mrs Hudson left her to go to the kitchen to prepare tea while the newcomer stepped forward.

“Good morning” she greeted the room and Lestrade got up to greet her, as neither Holmes brother showed any inclination to do so.

“You must be Claire Winter” he said accepting her offered hand and shook it.  “Greg Lestrade, and this” he announced turning to the room “Is Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes” and he gestured to each man in turn.

Miss Winter smiled at each man and then her focus set on the boy on Sherlocks lap.  “And you must be William” she cooed stepping closer to the couch, only to stop when William tensed up and pulled back from where she was trying to approach him.

“He’s a bit shy” Lestrade informed her unnecessarily.  “Seems to have taken a liking to Sherlock here and won’t let anyone else near him.  Even when he was sleeping he stayed latched on.”

Miss Winter just nodded understandingly and then crouched down so she was level with William and spoke gently to him.  “Hi William” she said.  “My names Claire.  How are you?”  There was no answer, so she continued.  “I am here to help find you somewhere to stay while the policeman here” and she pointed to Lestrade “will look for your daddy.  How does that sound?”

They were met by more silence as William just shook his head and then turned his head away from her, preferring to look back at Mycroft.  The social worker looked up at Sherlock.  “What methods have you tried so far in getting him to let go?”

Sherlock rattled off how he had tried to physically pull him off, tried bribing and tried to make the boy see how ridiculous he was being. “I even tried asking politely” he sulked.  This earned an eye roll from Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade but the woman before him just seemed to think about what he had told her.

“Has anyone else tried removing William?”she asked.  It was Lestrade who answered this time.

“Yeah.  It didn’t go too well” he mumbled, referring to Ms Greens first attempt at comforting the kid.

Claire Winter stood up and walked around to where William was now looking and crouched back down at his level without getting too close.  “William, do you have anyone else you would like to visit?  A mummy or a Grandma or an aunty or uncle?” The response was a shake of the boys head.  “What about friends?  Do you have good friends that you and your dad like to go visit sometimes?”  

“The other kidth don’t like me” he answered quietly and Sherlock felt a small, long forgotten pang of sympathy for the boy squashed up against him. 

“Okay” she replied soothingly.  “That’s okay.”  She turned to Lestrade.  “Does his father work?” She asked him.

“Yeah. Doctor at some clinic in Kingston.”

“William” she asked, turning her attention back to the boy.  “Who looks after you when your daddy is at work?”

William shrugged.  “I go to daycare” he replied.

Claire turned back to Lestrade.  “We need to find out what daycare centre he goes to.  They will have an emergency contact number” she said standing up and William instantly increased the pressure of his grip around Sherlocks body.  Without realising it Sherlocks hand came up to gently stroke up and down his back, causing William to loosen his hold, just a little bit.

“William” the social worker said calmly.  “I want you to do me a favour, do you think you can do that?” she asked and Sherlock thought the kid sensible for not responding, since he hadn’t heard what he was agreeing to.  After a few seconds she continued.  “I want you to try and let go of Mr Holmes here and just sit …”

She never got to finish her sentence, but the answer was clear by the instant crying and shuffling of William trying to get further away from her and closer to Sherlock, which was physically impossible by then.  William had no intentions of moving from within grasping reach of Sherlock.  Sherlock sighed and resumed rubbing the boys back as Mrs Hudson came and sat by them, producing yet another biscuit from within the floral folds of her apron, but this time William was not going to be so easily appeased.

Deciding the best course of action would be to remove William as far away from Miss Winter as possible Sherlock stood up from the couch, as gracefully as one can with a child latched onto the front of them, and relocated them to the kitchen.  As predicted, William quietened down.

He was just preparing to re-enter the living room when he heard his brother speak.  “If I may make a suggestion.” All heads stopped and turned to look at Mycroft, who hadn’t said a word since this new debacle started.

Sherlock went to open his mouth to say that no, he may certainly not have an opinion, especially since he was not invited into this catastrophe, but his brother continued speaking not giving him a chance and once he had spoke, Sherlock found himself temporarily speechless.

“Since the child is rather content here in 221B, why do we not leave him here.”

The silence was only disturbed by Lestrade inhaling the mouthful of tea that he had been taking and then proceeding to try and cough up a lung.

“It is evident that the child is going to fight and resist every attempt to remove him from what he has perceived as a safe environment with a person that he apparently trusts” Mycroft continued, not fazed at all by the stunned silence of his _suggestion._   “And short of sedating the child I doubt that you are going to find a way that will be comforting and stress free, considering the trauma the boy has already gone through, keeping in mind that if you do sedate him he will only be less trustful and more distressed when he wakes again”  Mycroft added, obviously noting the light appearing behind Sherlocks eyes at the idea of drugging the boy into a deep slumber.

Finally Lestrade stopped trying to choke to death and wheezed out “Have you gone quite mad?” and Sherlock had to agree.  Normally it was Sherlock that came up with impulsive ideas that had a strong potential to turn out bad.  His brother was the sensible one.  He made sensible choices and sensible decisions and had ideas and suggestions that were not completely flying barmy, and this idea _was_ barmy.

AgainSherlock was prevented by saying anything, this time by Mrs Hudson cooing “Oh, what a wonderful idea” at the same time as the new social worker saying, “Not only is that a bad idea, but it is just not possible” and Sherlock found himself actually silently agreeing with the social worker.

“Mr Holmes does not have the credentials to take in this child.  He has no training and has not been screened for…” She stopped short at the cold smile that had formed on Mycrofts lips.

“Miss _Winter_ , was it?” he asked sounding falsely sweet and the woman could only nod, her professional look dropping to something that resembled slightly nervous and Sherlock had a feeling that her nails might be a bit shorter by the time she reached her office after this interview.  “I can assure you that it is _very_ possible to make this happen and if we decide that the best outcome for this boy is to stay here then nothing you, or your superiors can do will stop it from being so.  I can vouch for my brother and have the documentation at your office before you even arrive back there, stating that there is no lawful reason as to why young William _cannot_ stay with my brother.” 

Sherlock slitted his eyes and studied his brother closely.  He was up to something.  He was correct in saying that lawfully there was nothing stopping him, after all, Sherlock had never been charged for any drug related incidents, but if someone were to dig deep enough they would find records of three seperate stints in rehab, the last one only being dated four years ago.  That, thrown in with his lifestyle choices now and he was most definitely not a candidate for supervising a small, traumatised child, and his brother wouldn’t give two hoots about the child.  He had less tolerance for children than what Sherlock did, so what was his game?  It was starting to nark Sherlock that he couldn’t figure it out.  

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock still doesn't find out what Mycroft is up to, but he does encounter problems that had never occurred to him before woke up that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the build up at work was extremely anticlimactic and our boss got in a tizzy over nothing (as usual) so I gladly find myself able to post on my normal Tuesday schedule, so lucky you, you get two chapters this week!!!! Hope you enjoy, and thanks for all the kudos, chapters and whatnot so far!!

~~~~~~~~~~

It took twenty five minutes for Sherlock to be able to have a chance to have a go at his brother.  Miss Winter had finally left, clearly not happy with what had transpired and with a promise that they had not heard the last of all of this.  Lestrade had followed shortly after seeming something crossed between stunned an uneasy and with a promise that he would contact Sherlock as soon as they had any more information on John Watson.  Mrs Hudson, who had been excitedly buzzing around since the idea of William staying had been first put forward, had seen the detective inspector out with the promise of more biscuits and maybe a cake to celebrate.  Mycroft had again made himself comfortable in Sherlocks chair, a silent promise to make Sherlocks life just that bit more difficult.  William was still attached to Sherlock, promising not to make this as easy as it should have been.

“What in the hell was that, Mycroft” Sherlock hissed as he heard the downstairs door close, spinning and stalking over to where Mycroft was primly sitting as if he had just announced that the unseasonably warmer weather was indeed a pleasant change.  “What could possibly have possessed you to think that me looking after a child is a good idea?”

Mycroft sat there, looking annoyingly patient and giving Sherlock a look that suggested he would not continue until Sherlock was seated and acting civil, so with a childish huff of frustration, a dramatic swirl of blue silk and a sulky posture, Sherlock stalked back to the couch and dropped down only to meet his brother with a very unimpressed glare.  It was as _civil_ as Mycroft was going to get from him.

“Would you believe that I just have the boys best interest at heart” Mycroft suggested once he was sure Sherlock was listening and Sherlock just gave a snort of unbelievability.

“No, Mycroft, I would not believe that. I don’t believe that you care one wit about this boys welfare or that his best interest would be to stay with me, so - what is it you are not telling me?”

Mycroft pulled his watch out of his pocket one more time and a very brief arch of his eyebrow graced his face as he looked down at the time piece before, once again, placing it back into his pocket.  “Unfortunately brother, I don’t have time to sit here and discuss what you believe I think of this situation but I will tell you this” and using his umbrella as leverage he stood up from the chair.  “If I had for one second thought that William was not safe in your care than I would never have suggested that he stay here.  As for what I am not telling you - I do not honestly believe there would ever be enough time to divulge all of that.”

“Mycroft” Sherlock growled and then winced when Williams finger tips dug into the side of his ribs as he clutched onto Sherlocks t-shirt, but Mycroft didn’t stop his departure.

“Good luck with the case, Sherlock” he said in way of farewell.  “Do let me know if I can assist in any way” and then all Sherlock could hear was the sound of his brothers steps on the stairwell, moving further away from him and William.

Sherlock sat on the couch in the almost silence, the sound of Williams quiet breathing and his own thoughts the only thing he could hear.  What the fuck had just happened?  What in the hell was Mycroft playing at?  And what in god’s name was he going to do with a child -  especially on that wouldn’t let go of him?  He was pulled from his worrying by a tugging on his shirt.

“Exthcuthe me” William whispered into his ear.  Sherlock pulled back and looked down at the boy.  “I need the toilet” he said biting his bottom lip and suddenly panic set in.  What in the hell did that mean? Well, no, he knew what it meant, but for Sherlock, what did that mean?  Did he have to assist or could he just point him in the right direction?  Could he even reach the toilet?  Was Sherlock going to be expected to clean up any mess?  Jesus, he had only been officially in charge for half an hour or so and he was already pants at the job.  He would be ringing his brother and telling him that despite what he believed about Sherlocks abilities he would need to find an alternative solution to this problem, because this was far from practical or ideal, but that would have to wait.  For now there was a more pressing problem and that problem was seeing that William did not release the contents of his bladder all over Sherlock so, quickly he stood up and hurried to the bathroom.

Relief flooded through Sherlocks body when he placed William on the floor and the boy _finally_ let go of him.  “I’ll just be…” and he indicated towards the door before hastily making a retreat from the bathroom.  He only just made as far as the door when he was stopped.

“I need help with my pyjamath.”  With a reluctant sigh Sherlock turned around a gave the ridiculous outfit a quick once over.  In no time he had the top button undone, the full body zip half undone and Williams arms out of the green, fleecy material.  

“I am assuming you can manage the rest yourself?”  William nodded and proceeded to push his pyjamas the rest of the way down and Sherlock took that as his cue to leave the room, and quickly, but not before noticing lines of light, sporadic bruising on the boys torso and upper arms, obviously where the ropes had bound his small body and he had struggled, making the ropes tighter in certain areas.  He would have to call Mycroft to organise a doctor to come and take a look over the boy, maybe when he was a bit less clingy.

He only had to linger in the hallway with his thoughts for a few seconds before “ _I’m done_ ” floated out from the bathroom.  Sherlock gave the boy a few seconds to dress himself and then went back into the bathroom to find that the boy had only managed in pulling up his pants and was struggling with the rest of it. Sherlock made his way over to William and assisted him in getting dressed as he silently vowed to throw the horrid piece of clothing out as soon as he had something else to dress him in and then suddenly he stopped, his fingers half way through pushing the top button through its hole.  He had nothing for William.  No clothes, no food, no form of entertainment.  What did kids even find entertaining these days? 

“I need to wath my handth” William said, placing his small hands on Sherlocks cheeks and turning his head so the detective was now looking at the boy.  “My daddy told me that if I don’t, I will get a poorly belly.”  Sherlock took in how serious the boy was at the whole hand washing process and nodded to show that he understood, so lifting him up he turned the tap on and William took his time in washing his hands in great detail, counting slowly to ten before pulling his hands from under the stream of water.  Once it was done he placed William back on the floor and quickly took a step back, fear of having the boy latch onto him again, but William seemed content to just stay near him.

“Have we finished in here?” Sherlock asked and William nodded with an “I’m hungry.”

“Right” Sherlock replied, running over the edible contents of his fridge and cupboards.  It wasn’t impressive.  Maybe he could go down and commandeer some more biscuits from Mrs Hudson, but then the memory of his cousin, Siobhan eating too much cake at Mycrofts twelfth birthday and vomiting all over Mycrofts new battleships game ran through his head.  At the time it had been amusing.  Now the idea didn’t seem at all charming and Sherlock felt that any situation involving vomit should be avoided at all cost so he made his way into the kitchen and opened the cupboards.

Eyeballs; an empty bottle of tomato sauce; two almost empty boxes of nicotine patches; a bottle of tannic acid; three left metacarpal bones; half a loaf of stale bread; a can of spaghetti and a jar of dead scarabs.  Grabbing the spaghetti he made his way over to the fridge.  It was depressingly worse off than the cupboards.  

Three week old leftovers from the Thai restaurant two blocks over; a bag of toes; something that may or may not have been half a grapefruit; two apples, possibly still edible and less than a cup of milk. Grabbing an apple he placed that and the spaghetti on the table.  “What will it be?” he asked the boy, who had scrambled up onto the kitchen chair and was viewing his frankly limited options with a fierce concentration.  Finally he looked up at Sherlock.  “Have you got fruity-bicth?”

Sherlock had no idea what a fruity-bix was, but an apple was fruit so he pushed the red sphere towards the boy.  With a dejected look, William took the apple and bit into it.  

“So” Sherlock asked as the boy ate, assuming that he should probably sit with William while he ate incase he…choked? or something.  Isn’t that what you were supposed to do?  Watch kids all the time because they were unable to manage the simplest task without getting into peril danger?  At least, that is what the impression a multitude of other parents seemed to give.  Children couldn’t be trusted to keep themselves alive for even the briefest amount of time.  Sherlock held back the groan.  This was going to be tedious.  “Is there anything that you would like to do.  Something…fun?”

William shrugged as he took another infinitesimal bite of the apple.  They were going to be there forever.  In fact, at this rate they really would be as by the time he actually finished the apple, it would be lunch and if he ate lunch as slowly as he ate his breakfast then by the time he finished that it would be dinner time and Sherlock was pretty certain that he was meant to feed the child at least three times a day.  

“My dad letth me watch Charlie and Lola and then Dinopawth on the TV.” 

“Riiiight” Sherlock let out slowly.  The boy may have just spoken to him in a made up language for all he understood of that sentence.  

“Do you have a TV?” the boy asked, somewhat hopefully.  Sherlock pointed to the corner where the television sat, mainly unused, on a small cabinet amongst other random bits and pieces and odd curios.  He was sure the remote control was somewhere.

“I know how to find the right channel” William announced, somewhat proudly and hopped off of the chair and toddled into the living room, apple clutched between both hands.

Sherlock followed him and rummaged around in the desk draws for where he thought the remote was while William made himself comfortable on the couch.  After a few minutes of searching he found the remote in the box of firewood and checked the batteries, then handing it over to William, he pulled the TV out from the corner and swung it around so it could be viewed with relative ease.

Before he had finished putting it in place the screen snapped to life and the room filled with the instant chatter of whatever drivel was on at the moment.  It didn’t last long before the screen flashed to another channel, and then another and another before settling on something that was nauseously colourful looking and depressingly cheery sounding.  

“I missed Charlie and Lola” William informed him, sounding a bit disappointed, but judging by the badly misrepresented lizard like creatures currently adorning the screen it appeared he was in time to watch Dinopaws.  “Can I watch Raa-raa after?” Sherlock heard him ask and he dragged his focus away from the nightmare that was on the screen before him, (was that really what children found entertaining?), and looked at William, who was looking up at him with wide hopeful eyes.

“Knock yourself out” he murmured and then turned to leave.  He was stopped by a small whimper and he turned to find that the hopeful look on Williams face was now one of fear and Sherlock realised that the last thing the kid probably wanted was to be left alone, so deciding that he could delete it all later he sat on the couch and watched _Dinopaws_ and then followed it up by two episodes of something called _Raa Raa the Noisy Lion_ , all the while sending Mycroft a myriad of text messages demanding that he fix this problem that he had gotten Sherlock into.  All of them went unanswered.  Raa Raa finished and he was then subjected to something called _Timmy Time._ He drew the line at _Lazytown_.  

“I need a shower” he announced, standing up but was stopped by William latching onto his hand.  

“I will be quick” he reassured him doing what he thought was a valiant job at not letting his irritation show, but the scared look didn’t leave Williams face.  “I will lock the door here” and he pointed to the living room door “and leave the bathroom door open, so if you need anything you can just shout.”  Williams hold on his hand loosened, but didn’t release.  “When I am dressed we will go and get more biscuits from Mrs Hudson.”  That seemed to do the trick and Sherlock felt his hand slowly being set free again.

“Just sit here and I’ll be back before you know it.”  He tried to sound genuinely reassuring, but just the thought of sitting back down to watch the mind numbing entertainment aimed at children was enough to make him feel depressed.  William didn’t seem to notice though.  He just gave a small nod of his head and then pulled his knees up to his chest and watched the screen while he continued to eat his apple.  Sherlock quickly made for the bathroom before William changed his mind.

The shower was a welcome relief until he found himself humming the insipid theme song of _Timmy Time_.  He shut off the water and took himself into his room, determined to delete and to never hear that ridiculous jingle ever again.

He came out of his room, tucking his shirt into his trousers only to find William, asleep on the couch a half eaten apple core on the coffee table and the TV making soft noises in the background.  Quietly, not wanting to wake the boy he made his way over to the couch, grabbing the throw rug that usually lived on the back of the red chair, along the way.  When he was standing in front of the couch Sherlock saw that William had something clutched in his hand.  Placing the blanket lightly over his body he carefully uncurled the small fingers from around the piece of paper that was clutched in the tiny grip.  Unfurling the thick paper he found himself looking down at the photo that had been in the file that Lestrade had brought around.  

Looking down into the face of John Watson, Sherlock vowed that he would do anything he needed to in order to find this boys father and hopefully bring him home safely.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns more about John, which just raises more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have lost track of where I am, or more so, when I am and some part of my brain keeps telling me it's Tuesday, even though it is apparently not Tuesday, so to keep that part my brain happy, I am posting the next chapter...just in case it is, in fact, Tuesday!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock watched as the solution in the petri dish fizzled into a hissing, bubbling life for a whole of 6 seconds before dying out, leaving a white outline where the foam had existed for its brief amount of time.  It was the third time that morning he had carried out the test and it was the third time it had had the same result.  A small sound of frustration left his mouth.  He would find out what the secret recipe in Mrs Hudson’s Charcutière sauce was if it was the last thing he ever did.  But, judging by the feet that were coming up the stairs, his landlady’s culinary secrets would have to wait for another day to uncover.

“Let me guess, they found nothing” Sherlock drawled, standing up as Lestrade entered the kitchen.  Lestrade, taking a steady breath (has taken up smoking again) let out a small noise confirming Sherlocks statement.

“The apartment is clean, hardly a thing out of place, no sign of forced entry.  Nobody saw anything or heard anything.  In fact, his neighbours thought that he had gone away as he had approached them a few days ago and asked him to collect his mail for the upcoming week.”

Sherlock pottered around on the bench tops while he thought, using it as an excuse to move closer to the doorway so he could check in on William.  He was still asleep.  

“Holiday” he stated simply.

“Yeah, his place of work, Ewell Road Medical Centre, said that he had taken two weeks holiday starting yesterday, had seemed happy, normal before his last shift and hadn’t mentioned any strange going on’s.  Has not had any unhappy patients and gets on well with all of his co-workers.  They can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against the man.”

“Any close friends or relatives?” Sherlock asked, looking back over to the couch.

“No real close friends.  Keeps in contact with a few of the guys he served with and on occasion goes out with some of the others from work, but they have never heard him speak of anyone in particular.  As for family, the only ones they know of is a grandmother in Scotland, in a nursing home with late stage dementia and a sister, one…” Sherlock watched as Lestrade rifled through his pockets for his note book and wondered, not for the first time, how odd it was that people could not remember simple facts on their own.  “…Harriet Watson.”

“So, William will be going to her then?” Sherlock asked and he wasn’t sure how that came out, nor how he felt at the idea.  He should be relieved that there was someone who can take over care for the boy.  And he was, it’s just… 

“Not likely.  John apparently has nothing to do with her except for when she rings him up in a drunken state blaming him again for her wreck of a life.  I took the liberty of looking her up and she _doesn’t_ have a clean record.  Three accounts of DUI, four counts of drunk and disorderly and one account of aggravated assault.”

“Alcoholic” Sherlock stated, belatedly feeling the relief and Lestrade nodded.

“For the better part of ten years apparently.”

“What about Williams mother?” Sherlock asked.  She had to exist, somewhere.  

“So far, we have nothing.  All they know is that William was a result of a one night stand between John and herself after John left the army and she handed over all custody as soon as the boy was born.  Nobody knows her name and she is not listed as a next of kin for John or William.”

“So you looked at the daycare centre then.”  Sherlock was impressed.  It had only been a couple of hours and Lestrade had been quite busy indeed.

“Yeah, they only confirmed that the two of them were going to be away for the next week.  John is the only person listed as an emergency contact and they have never heard William talk about anyone else nor have they ever seen John with anyone else.”

Something confused Sherlock about all of this.  For such a well liked man, John Watson didn’t seem to have anyone in his life.  Except for William.  By all accounts, the man should have a rather healthy social life but by the sounds of it Sherlock got out more than he did and that was saying something.

“Anywhere wth the CCTV?” Sherlock asked, moving the direction of his own investigation.

Sherlock was taken back by the way Lestrades face seemed to light up, just a bit.  It can’t have been groundbreaking evidence, otherwise he would have brought it up by now, so it was something else, something to look at at a later date when there wasn’t a man missing.

“Usually, we’d still be waiting, but it seems your brother and his team of magical elves” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  He should have known his brother would meddle, “Sent me over some footage and it does indeed show what William told us to be true.”  With that, he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a memory stick.  Without another word, Sherlock took the stick from the DI and went and fetched his laptop from his room.  Coming back out he mindlessly shoved some of his science equipment to the side and set up the computer, opening up the files on the memory stick.

“There was nothing at the apartment.  All of those cameras were conveniently either not working or facing in the wrong direction.”

Sherlock was only half listening as the grainy footage of London’s security lit up his computer screen.  Not even thirty seconds into the footage a dark coloured van pulls up to a quiet intersection, not even a block away from Baker Street, waiting for lights to turn green.  Only two other cars are seen and they are moving through the opposite lights.  Ten seconds later the back of the van opens, slowly and just a bit and suddenly there is a small, familiar figure tumbling out and hitting the road.  After two seconds the figure gets up and turns back to the back of the van, clearly crying and then hesitantly turns and runs away.  John is nowhere to be seen but the passenger door opens and a big, heavy set man, not familiar to Sherlock, gets out and runs in the direction of the boy, while the driver, who has a very prominent limp, gets out and leans into the back of the van.  His actions are obscured by the van door, but Sherlock can safely assume that John Watson suffered some form of physical punishment.  The screen goes black.

“The second video gives a better look at the boys pursuer” Lestrade said as Sherlock clicked on the second file.

This footage showed William, clearly identifiable by his dinosaur pyjamas, running down the street behind Baker Street and ducking into an alley way, situating himself behind a dumpster.  If he hadn’t been so small it would never have worked, and if the gap had been any larger then the thug chasing him would have seen him.  As it was, nobody would think to look behind such a tight space and Sherlock found himself thankful at the fact that the boy was so small.

A minute later the man who was chasing him ran past the alley way and then back tracked, going down the small lane.  He could just be seen throwing loose rubbish and old boxes around, clearly getting angry over the fact that he has lost the child.  Even though Sherlock knew he never found William, he felt his heart beat, just a bit faster, as he walked back towards the dumpster that William was hiding behind only to let out a heavy breath when he walked past and then kept on going until he was out of the shot again.

“William sits there for over three and a half hours before emerging and then twenty minutes later he finds your place” Lestrade informed him as the screen dropped to black again.

Sherlock stood and stared at the black screen, parsing over all that he had learnt in the last twenty minutes.  None of it made sense.  

“Woo-hoo, Sherlock.”  Mrs Hudson bustled into the kitchen without waiting for a response from Sherlock and pulled him out of his thoughts, his focus latching onto the bags she had in her hand.

“That lovely lady that works with your brother just dropped these off.  Said there was a folder for you and the rest was for William.”

She placed the bags, four in total, on the floor by the table as he looked into them.  Clothes by the looks of it, and wasn’t he thankful for that. No more lizard costumes!

“Where is he?” she cooed and Sherlock noticed as she fumbled in the pocket of her apron which, to his delight, had fresh flour on it.  She had been doing more baking.

“Asleep” he answered as he reached into the furthest bag, extracting from it a dark blue folder, impressively thick and the content most certainly pertaining to John Watson.

“Well, as soon as he wakes up, send him down.  I have muffins” she informed him and turned to leave.  

“Orange and poppyseed?” he asked, trying to sound uninterested.

“And the blueberry ones you also pretend not to like as well, dear” and then she was gone, back down the stairs.

“You’re spoilt, you know that” Lestrade said and Sherlock chose to ignore him, instead opening up the folder on John Watson. 

“Anything interesting?” he heard the DI ask after a few minutes of nothing but Sherlock perusing through the pages in the file.

“Much” Sherlock murmured.

“Care to share?”

Sherlock was quiet for a few more moments before closing the file and dropping it onto the table.

“John Watson, born 12 August 1971, 39 years of age, Graduated from St Bartholomew's at the age of 27 with an MSc in Surgical Skills and Sciences, scored in the top five of his classes,  served in the Royal Army Medical Corps, for seven years, carrying the rank of Captain, invalided out five years ago after being shot in the shoulder.  Suffers from tremors in the hand, negating his skills as a surgeon and suffers from PTSD and a psychosomatic limp in his left leg.  He is a recipient of a Military Cross, Distinguished Service Order and a Victoria Cross. Has had three jobs, working in different surgeries since returning home.  His current job he has had for three years now.  Obviously during those jobs he somewhere met Williams mother where they had a brief dalliance, resulting in an unplanned pregnancy which she carried to full term and then handed the results over to John whom he apparently had no contact with after he obtained legal custody.  He has one estranged sister and both of their parents are deceased - father when he was twelve, car accident and mother when he was nineteen, liver failure.  Has been in no trouble with the law and has had no known associations with any shady characters, except for one Mary Morstan.”

“Should I know that name?” Lestrade asked, running through a list of criminals he was currently keeping a weathered eye on.

“I doubt it.  She is, or was Williams mother.”

“Was?  So, she’s…”

“Yes, it appears that way.  Apparently a house fire when William was two and a half.  Nothing seemed suspicious about it, but her life before hand certainly raises some questions?”

“Such as?”

“Where was she before she met John?”

It was clear that Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was on about.

“There is no trace of a Mary Elizabeth Morstan, born 24th July 1973, anywhere.  There are nursing degrees and a birth certificate even, as well as a passport, but none of them actually exist.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It is all forged.  None of it was real.  Mary Morstan was not her real identity, so then who was she?”  This question was asked more to himself than Lestrade and he looked down at the file on the table.  It just raised more questions, but at least now, Sherlock had a pretty good idea as to what had prompted this attack on John and his son.  Sherlock would bet that whoever had John wanted something to do with Mary.  The question now, was to figure out what it was so then he could hopefully trace it to who wanted it, thus leading him to John.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a look at the crime scene and is (re) introduced to dinosaurs.

~~~~~~~~~~

The flat was small but clean and compared to Sherlocks own flat, meticulously tidy.  Everything had a home and had been put away in that home, and if it had just been the doctor that lived there it would have almost been compulsively clean.  But then, there were hints of William.  A toy box made to fit, jammed in the corner next to the lamp, stuffed to the brim with toys; on the mantel were clay sculptures that may or may not have been people, one large and one small, possibly a replication of the doctor and his son; on the thin bookshelf next to the hearth was an array of children’s books, slotted away in no particular order, on the bottom shelf and on the shelf above it was a selection of children’s DVD’s and the fridge was adorned with enough pictures in brightly coloured crayons to actually not be able to see if the appliance was white or stainless steel.  There were a few dishes stacked on the sink in the drying rack and the cupboards and fridge were sparse of too many perishables, but Sherlock did notice a bright purple box of something labelled ‘ _Fruity-Bix_ ’ and made a mental note to grab those before he left.

He moved through the flat to find what was apparently the doctors room.  Military neat, except for the unmade bed and the shattered glass on the floor next to the bedside table.  John had obviously not fought back much, probably because the intruders had used William as leverage. 

Sherlock poked around.  Clothes were all folded and put in their correct places.  Sherlock winced at the amount of checked patterns and knitted jumpers, all in barely tolerable fabrics.  If Sherlock had been given these contents alone, and asked who they belonged to, his first guess would have been someones grandfather.  Closing the closet shut he moved onto the dresser.  Ignoring the rest of the clothing he rifled through the doctors belongings coming up with nothing of use.  There was a passport, several bundles of photos from his army days (and Sherlock most certainly did ~~not~~ notice how well Doctor Watson filled out his fatigues) and a small leather case that held the medals he had been awarded in the army.  

Under the bed proved more interesting.  Sherlock found a locked box, which of course was no challenge at all, and what he found made him think that maybe the good doctor wasn’t as straight laced as he appeared.  Inside, wrapped neatly in a hand towel was a British Army Browning L9A1.  Due to the fact that the soldiers , as a general rule, were not actually allowed to keep those after being discharged, Sherlock had a pretty good feeling that this gun was unregistered and unlicensed.  Too bad he had been such a stickler for keeping it properly housed, otherwise he may have been able to use it to defend himself.  Quietly he re-wrapped the gun, closed the lid and locked it before sliding it back under the bed.  No point in alerting the police to this little find.  It’s not as if John Watson was likely to go out and start shooting people after all, it was obviously just a precaution. and shame on them for not doing a proper search of the bedroom.  

Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, only to find that it was just as uninformative as the rest of the house.  There were the usual toiletries, and on the top of the bathroom cabinet, a bottle of sleeping pills that had barely been touched since being prescribed 14 months ago.  

Next was Williams room.   The state of it told the story of what had happened perfectly.  William had clearly fought back.  Clearly not understanding the severity of what was happening, just scared and wanting to get to his father.  The bedding had been ripped off and thrown to the floor.  The lamp lay shattered on the floor, the position and distance it had fallen, towards the door, away from the bed, indicated that it had been knocked with some force - probably kicked when William had been hauled from the bed.  The rug which adorned the centre of the floor was rumpled in several places indicating that who ever had disturbed it (large, wide foot, size 12 and a half) was carrying something not overly light and had stumbled, indicating that William had thrown his weight around, knocking his attacker off balance three times.  By the door, dropped and forgotten, was an orange lizard looking teddy with blue square spikes coming out of its back.

“The kid really loves his dinosaurs” Lestrade said, idling up next to him.

“Apparently” Sherlock murmured, nudging it with his foot before looking around again.  

“It’s an absolute mess in here” Lestrade commented, poking at the remains of the lamp with his own toe.

“He fought back” Sherlock informed him, looking at the shelves screwed to the wall.  There was a photo of John and William, both wearing matching grins and complementing abominations of jumpers with Christmas patterns on them.  A christmas tree filled the background. 

“And Doctor Watson didn’t?” Lestrade asked, the usual confusion lacing his voice. “Why would a man, so clearly devoted to his son, not fight back?”

“They threatened to hurt him, William.  If he didn’t co-operate, then William would be the one to be punished.  It all comes down to sentiment, Detective Inspector, the ultimate weakness.”

Sherlock ignored the snort he heard come from the man next to him and continued to explore the room.  Just the usual stuff that he had found in children’s room from the few other cases that had involved kids - toys, books and tiny clothes.  Nothing whatsoever to indicate why two men would want to cause harm to either occupants of the flat.  

“So?” Lestrade asked hopefully once it was obvious that Sherlock had stopped looking. 

“The lock was picked, professionally” Sherlock started.  “It is almost flawless but there are fresh scratches around the lock itself and slight traces of a lubricant they used to make the job easier.   The assailants knew their way around the flat as nothing was disturbed or knocked over in the living areas.  The slight beginning layers of dust, two days old at the most, can ascertain that fact, as if something had been knocked over the attackers never would have put it back in the exact same spot and there are no disturbances in the layers of dust, apart from those caused from everyday living.  Secondly, it would have been dark and a light coming on would have woken the doctor up.”

“How could you possibly have known that?” Lestrade asked somewhat skeptically.

“The man was a soldier and a doctor, both professions that require light sleeping.  The indents in his mattress indicate that he sleeps on his side, facing the door, plus there was a prescription in the bathroom for sleeping tablets, possibly to help combat his PTSD, but he doesn’t take them.  Quite probably because when he does, he can’t hear if William needs him during the night.  The man keeps his door open all the time.” By now they had moved from Williams room and were back at John’s room.  “The door is stiff, like it hardly gets used, in fact, I doubt it has been shut in several months.  There is a light there” and Sherlock turned to point at a small plastic cube sticking out from the powerpoint in the hallway.  “It lights up when all other light sources have been removed.  Not too bright, but enough for William to find his way from his room to the bathroom, or to John’s room if he so wished.”  Sherlock stopped here and turned to face the direction of the living areas.  “Had our assailants turned on any lights John would have woken up.  They also moved silently, therefore, they knew their way around the flat, ignoring the two floorboards that squeak, just outside the bathroom.”

“You got all of that from ten minutes of being in the flat?” Lestrade asked, clearly impressed.

“”Eight” Sherlock corrected and then continued with his findings.  “I am inclined to go with Williams description of only two intruders.  Any more would have increased the risk of being caught.  One went straight up to Williams room, while one went into John’s room.  I daresay he went to fight back, the glass on the floor, but that is when he heard William fighting back and he grew compliant.  There are small traces of hemp fibres in the kitchen, that is most likely where they were tied up, more than likely with a gun to Williams head the whole time to dissuade the doctor from acting out and both of their winter jackets are missing from the hook in the entry hall.  I conclude that the items of clothing were draped over their shoulders so, should anyone see them leaving, in the dark of the night it wouldn’t look too suspect.”

“I don’t suppose you have anything to tell us who they were, why they were here or where they have gone, by any chance.”

Sherlock frowned.  No, he didn’t have any of that information.  What he did have was just a confirmation from what they had already learnt from William, which speaking of…

“There is nothing more to learn here.  I need to get back to William.  I told him I would be back at 3:30.”

After much negotiating and reassuring, Sherlock was able to leave William with Mrs Hudson, baking even more biscuits (this boy was truely proving to be an asset) and an off duty police officer that owed Lestrade a favour, since the boy still didn’t feel safe without Sherlock, who had promised to only be two hours.  Sherlock had left William with a downturned mouth and big sad looking eyes and he had pushed the feeling of guilt aside and hailed a taxi to the New Malden flat that belonged to the Watson family.

“He can read the time?” Lestrade asked, for some reason to Sherlock, sounding impressed.

“Of course he can read the time.  He’s four years old.”

“Of course you would think that is normal, what with having a brain the size of a planet and all.”

“Is it not normal for children to know such things?”

“Not at his age.  That is normally something they learn at school.”

Sherlock thought on this, curious as to what else the boy was capable of.  He would have to remember to do a research later of children’s milestones and capabilities.

“Whatever age they learn the time is irrelevant.  What is important is that it is almost three-thirty and I need to grab some things before we leave.”

“Sherlock this is a crime scene.  You can’t take anything.”

~o~

Sherlock unceremoniously dumped the two garbage bags full of Williams belongings on the kitchen table, ignoring another of Lestrades defeated sighs of resignation, his focus more directed at the small human who was now barreling towards him at an alarming speed.

“You came back” the boy exclaimed as he wrapped his small arms around Sherlocks legs, almost knocking him off balance.

“Five minutes to spare” Sherlock retorted, carefully unwinding Williams limbs from his own.  “And I have things.  For you.”

Williams expression went from relief to piqued interest and he scrambled up onto the kitchen chair so he could get a better look at the contents of the first bag that Sherlock tipped out onto the table top.

Williams hands instantly snatched out to pull the orange and blue dinosaur.  “Tom Bombadil” he cooed, pulling the toy close and hugging it.  Sherlock frowned at such a ridiculous name and diverted Williams attention to the purple box of fruity-bix instead.  

“Can I have them for tea?” he asked hopefully and Sherlock shrugged.  

“I can’t see why not.  It’s got fruit, it must be healthy” he replied and he couldn’t help but smile at the pleased grin that spread across Williams face.  

Lestrade opened his mouth, probably to say something about breakfast cereal and dinner time, but he was not given the chance because William took that very opportunity to thrust a piece of paper covered in red and black pen, in Sherlock’s face.  “Look what I drawed for you” he announced proudly.

Sherlock had no idea what the oval shaped figure with what was maybe very small arms and extremely large legs was supposed to be, but down the bottom of the page, the word _trex_ was printed in clearly legible letters.

“What in the hell is a trex?” Sherlock asked, confused at what he was looking at and what he was supposed to do with it.

“No thilly,  not a trekth - a _T_ \- Rekth.” William giggled, enunciating the _T_ clearly and boldly, as if that cleared up all matters, which it didn’t.  It just clarified that William needed to learn about hyphens.  “The king of all the dinothaurth.”

Sherlock looked to Lestrade for some form of guidance. “T-Rex is short for Tyrannosaurus Rex.  The biggest dinosaur” the other man explained with a smug grin on his face, which Sherlock was not appreciating at all. 

To avoid that grin getting any bigger  While wishing he had paid more attention the the cartoons earlier that morning, Sherlock tried to show that he understood what the two of them were on about, but was apparently unsuccessful.  

“You’ve deleted dinosaurs, haven’t you” Lestrade asked, the grin growing wider.

“Not that they existed” Sherlock replied with a frown, tipping the contents of the second bag onto the table with a bit too much force, sending a bottle of Captain Matey, bubblegum scented bubble bath skittling to the floor.  “Just all the particulars that went with.”  Lestrade was silent.  Sherlock snapped.  “Why, Guy, would I need to know about something that no longer exists?  Tell me when I am going to need data on Tyrannosaurus Rex’s to solve a crime?”

“Calm down” Lestrade said, holding up a hand, palm facing Sherlock.  “It’s fine.  You deleted dinosaurs, I get it, just like you apparently delete my first name.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William has a nightmare and it brings back unwanted feelings of familiarity in Sherlock. There is warm milk, discussions and promises made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, It's Tuesday. As you probably noticed, there was another bonus chapter a couple of days ago, but I was feeling generous and thought, 'What the hell!'   
> As always, love you all and I hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock looked at the files scattered on the desk in front of him, John Watson’s crumpled photo in the middle of the table.  Surrounding it were John’s own file, the reports on Mary Morstan and photo images from the CCTV footage Lestrade had given him earlier that day, and also photos of the Watson’s flat.  Originally, Sherlock had set about pinning all of the information onto the wall, above the couch as he usually did on cases, but Lestrade had thought that being able to see it all might upset William.  Sherlock was going to ignore him, but then Lestrade proceeded to remind him that an upset William was a clingy William and Sherlock had announced that it would be best to wait until the boy was asleep anyway, to avoid unnecessary distractions.

It was frustrating.  There was nothing that actually linked anything of significance to John Watson and anything even remotely criminal, except for Mary Morstan and that was currently a dead end as he had no idea of her real identity.  Unfortunately, he had had to call on Mycroft to look into her past.  He had received a smug looking reply (yes, text messages can look smug) from his brother, stating that he would get someone onto it immediately.  Sherlocks following message about finding an appropriate home for William had been left unanswered, just like the dozens before hand.  Something needed to be done.  Sherlock couldn’t work like this.  A large portion of his evening had been taken up feeding and bathing the child and then it had taken over an hour for William to fall asleep, in which the entire time, Sherlock had to sit by him and listen to the comparisons between his bed and Johns bed only to then have to read six different stories, ranging from fairly tolerable to horridly ridiculous.  The first one, _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ , had been the tolerable one.  By the time he had reached the end of _Green Eggs and Ham_ he had decided that a) the author was most definitely not a doctor, as claimed on the cover, and b) the correct combination of fifty words, repeated over and over and over, in different order was enough to make him want a cigarette…or three.  Thankfully, as he had neared the third page of _The Little Engine That Could_ , William had completely stopped fidgeting and had fallen asleep.  

That had been near six and a half hours ago and Sherlock was still no closer to knowing anything new about the case.  He had re-read through Johns file, going over every detail with a fine toothed comb.  He had messaged one of his homeless network to pick up and distribute the grainy images of the fat man that had chased William down the alley way.  He had sent multiple messages to both Lestrade and his brother asking how far they had progressed.  After the first message Mycroft, as usual, had politely told him to stop bothering him, as he was busy not bowing to Sherlocks every whim and ignored all of the following messages.  To start off with, Lestrade had also been polite, stating that he would contact Sherlock as soon as he had heard anything.  The last message had been to tell him to piss off and stop messaging him, or so help him, he would make sure Anderson was at _every_ crime scene before Sherlock had even been called, for the next three months.

So, Sherlock had been left to himself, going over the evidence, one more time, pulling at his hair when no answers jumped out at him.  There had to be something.  Anything!!  One little clue was all he would need and everything else would slot into place.  A name, a motive…something had to be there, right in front of his eyes, and he was just not seeing it.  

It was as he reached for the packet of cigarettes, needing a fourth one for the evening, when he heard it.  A small cry.  What it lacked in volume, it made up for in mournfulness.  His hand froze, clutched around the cardboard as he listened closer.  There it was again, coming from his bedroom.  This cry was followed by a small whimper.  Quickly, Sherlock let go of the smoke packet and headed towards his room where William was apparently in some form of distress.  As he stepped into his lamp lit room he found William huddled up in the middle of the bed, under the blankets, quietly crying.  

Sherlock remembered nights like this, visions of schoolyard bullies - the taunts and the pushing and kicking, trying not to let his parents know he had had yet another nightmare.  Scared that his father would tell him that he was too soft and that it was time to grow up and that his mother would tell him that if he wasn’t such a rude little know-it-all then the other children at school wouldn’t pick on him so.

He cautiously made his way over to the bed and gently pulled back the covers from over the shaking lump in the middle of it.  “It’s just me” he announced, realising too late that he probably should have done that when he entered the room.

Sherlock watched Williams hunched shoulders relax, just a little bit, and he tilted his head back, just enough to let his blue eyes appear between his knees and his curls.  “I had a bad dream” he whispered.

Stiffly, Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed.  As much as he knew about these nights, he didn’t know what to do with them.  Most of the time he was on his own.  When Mycroft was home from boarding school he would silently sneak under the blankets with him and wrap his arms around Sherlocks shoulders until he fell back to sleep, only to be gone when the morning came round again.  Sherlock figured that somehow, that wasn’t going to be sufficient enough.

“Do you need to talk?  About it?  The nightmare?”  God, this was awkward, especially with William just peering over his knees at him, like he was.

“My dad maketh me warm milk when I have a bad dream” William told him in a voice slightly louder than a whisper this time.  “And then I can thleep in hith bed with him tho the bad dream won’t come back.”

“You’re already in my bed.” Sherlock stated flatly, not understanding how location could stop the brain from manifesting images of a pernicious nature.

“Milk” William prompted gently.

With a small, almost silent sigh, Sherlock stood up and made his way to the kitchen.  Warm milk.  What was warm?  And what was the best way to warm it up?  Weren’t microwave ovens supposed to be dangerous to use around kids.  Jesus, everything was dangerous around kids.  How did people cope with this on a daily basis?  How did they cope with more than one?  Was it just milk, or was there a soothing agent in the milk, like lavender or camomile, or valium?  Was a tea cup too much, did Sherlock own anything smaller than a teacup?  Would William need to brush his teeth again?  He had been very persistent in brushing them before bed and that was an ordeal, what with having to time three minutes exactly, and brush the same amount of brushes on the up teeth and the down teeth, and that was only once the right amount of toothpaste had been applied to the toothbrush.  

Sherlock stood in the kitchen with the milk in one hand and looked around.  This was too much hard thinking.  He slipped his phone out of his pocket and sent off a text message.  

**What is the best way to warm milk and what**

**is warm enough?  SH**

 

**Chuck it in a cup and microwave it for about 40**

**seconds or so.**

 

**About 40 seconds or so?  Could you maybe be**

**a bit more specific.  36 seconds, maybe, or 47**

**seconds?  And how warm is warm enough?  SH**

 

**Jesus, Sherlock.  Just put the damn cup in the**

**microwave oven, put it on for 40 seconds and**

**then test it.  If it feels too hot, add some cold milk.**

**If it feels too cold, put it in for another five seconds.**

**It’s really not rocket science.**

 

**It’s no wonder you need my help so often, George,**

**if this is how you conduct your investigations - ‘just**

**do something and see how it goes.’ SH**

 

**GREG.  My name is GREG.  G.  R.  E.  G.  And it is**

**fucking warm milk for crying out loud.  You’re**

**supposed to be a genius.  Figure it out!**

With a huff, Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket and pulled a teacup from the cupboard.  He followed _Greg’s_ quasi instructions and was rather surprised to find that the milk was actually a good temperature at around 36°.  

He carried the milk back to his room and found William still in the middle of the bed, only now he was no longer huddled up, Tom Bombadil sitting in his lap.

“Milk” he announced, holding the cup out to William.  William took the cup in both of his hands and carefully drew it down to his mouth and started sipping at it.  After a few minutes he handed Sherlock back the empty cup.

“Will you go back to sleep now?” Sherlock asked as William got comfortable up against the pillows once more.  

“You have to go to thleep too” he told Sherlock, curling around his stuffed dinosaur, as Sherlock pulled the blanket over him.

“I will sleep on the couch” he replied, although, he doubted he would sleep at all, not now that he had a case going. 

William frowned up at him.  “No.  You need to thleep here, tho my bad dream won’t come back.”

Sherlock frowned back down at William, thoughtfully.  So, it wasn’t the location that stopped the dreams.  It was the presence of another person.  This must have been why Mycroft would come into his room on the nights he was home.  

“Will you go to sleep if I lay down with you?”  Sherlock asked, thinking that as soon as the boy was asleep he could get back up and go back to the case.  William nodded so Sherlock toed off his shoes and laid down on the edge of the bed, on top of the blankets.

“You will get cold if you don’t thnuggle under the blanket” William said, wriggling around so he was closer to Sherlock, the ever faithful blue and orange dinosaur still held close to his chest.

“I’ll be fine.  Go to sleep” Sherlock replied, and closed his eyes, hoping William would do the same.  After a few minutes silence, just when Sherlock thought William might have gone to sleep, he spoke again.

“You thmell like thmoke.”

Sherlock kept his eyes shut, hoping that once he answered the boys statement he would go back to silence.  “That is because I had a cigarette.  Go to sleep.”

Again, there was silence and again, it was only brief.

“You will get lung canther and go blind and die if you thmoke.”

Finally, Sherlock cracked open an eye and looked at William.  He looked very serious.  

“And you won’t be able to breathe properly and you will have to have a vennn….”

“Ventilator” Sherlock filled in.

“Yep, one of them.  And you will be too tired to walk anywhere.  And then you will be thad, and your daddy will be thad and your little boy will be thad.”

“Did your dad tell you this?”

“He ith a doctor.  He knowth everything.”

“Well, I don’t have a little boy, and I don’t have a daddy, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

There was silence again and Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping this was the end of the conversation.  He wasn’t so lucky.

“Then I will be thad.”  This was followed by William placing his small hand on Sherlocks cheek and when Sherlock opened his eyes it was to find himself staring into Williams big blue ones, wide with concern for Sherlocks lungs and level of happiness.  The feeling of gratitude at this child’s concern was slightly overwhelming so Sherlock ignored it and instead asked “If I stop smoking will you go back to sleep?” 

William seemed to ponder this and after a few seconds of serious thinking he gave a curt nod. 

“Good, then I promise I will stop smoking.  Go to sleep.”

Sherlock waited for William to shut his eyes before he closed his own.  The two of them stayed that way until the room was filled with the early rays of morning light.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns more about William, John and apparently himself. There is also a new addition to the front of the fridge.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock lay on the couch, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin, sifting through all of the information he had on the case of John Watson that was so far stored in his mind palace.  It still wasn’t much.  The last twenty-four hours had yielded no new information.  The van that had taken the Watson’s away from their home had been tracked with CCTV as far as South Tottenham but had been lost after that.  The man that had chased William was a no-one.  His picture had been circulated through NSY and around the streets, but so far no-one recognised him.  Mycroft had come no-closer to discovering the real identity of Mary Morstan, but it had most definitely been her body that had died in the fire.  Apparently the face had still been recognisable, and John Watson had been called in to identify the body.  That alone seemed odd to Sherlock, but he put it aside for now, assuming it probably had something to do with sentiment.

He was just going through the list of men that John had served with, when he was pulled out of his thoughts by a weight pushing into his side and the feeling of something being  held in close proximity to his face.

“Look what I drawed for you, Therlock” came Williams quiet but excited voice.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see a kaleidoscope of coloured wax markings on a white piece of paper, not even two inches away from his face.  Gently taking the page from Williams hands he held it back at a distance that wasn’t leaving him cross-eyed.  The colours turned into something that looked like a crude representation of Sherlock frowning down at his microscope.  

“It’th you with your mic-thro-thcope” the boy announced proudly, just incase the image wasn’t telling enough on its own.

“Mic _-ro_ -scope” Sherlock corrected, “And why am I frowning?” He asked frowning at the picture.

“You alwayth frown when you think” William informed him pensively, also frowning thoughtfully at the picture.   “And you get a bump, right here” and at this William looked from the picture to Sherlock and placed the tip of his finger between Sherlocks eyes.  “My dad poketh out hith tongue when he thinkth.”

Sherlock frowned at William, thinking the boys observations absurd, when suddenly he realised that he was in fact frowning and then tried to smooth the apparent _bump_ between his eyes away, having a strong feeling he was failing.  So instead, he turned his attention back to the picture.  “Well, it is a very good likeness of both myself and my microscope.  Here” he said matter-of-factly, handing the picture back to William.

“But, I drawed it for you” William said now sounding despondent and even quieter than before.  “Don’t you like it?”

Sherlock looked at Williams face and felt something pull in the vicinity of his abdomen.  It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, so he took the picture back.  “Well, thank you” he replied stiffly, wondering what he could do with it that would not make the child even more unhappy.   His memory went back to the Watson’s flat and the multitude of pictures plastered all over the fridge, and to the one lonely one of the tyrannosaurus rex that Lestrade had stuck to the fridge in the kitchen. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt if this one joined the other.  Getting up he made his way to the kitchen and then placed the drawing in the centre of the fridge, holding it in place with a magnet advertising the fish and chip shop down on the corner.    

“Do you like it?” William asked hopefully.

“Very much so” Sherlock replied, surprised that he actually wasn’t lying.  Looking at the image did actually make him smile, even if it was just a little bit.

“Can I get a bithcuit from Mitheth Hudthon?” William asked, completely changing topic but sounding excited once more.

Deciding that that was a wonderful idea Sherlock strode over to the counter and plucked an empty Walkers Shortbread tin from the surface.  “Take this down to her and she will fill it up for you.”  William happily took the tin from Sherlocks hands and practically ran out the flat, jumping noisily down the stairs, one at a time.  Sherlock listened to make sure he got to the bottom without falling (again) and then made his way back over to the couch, but not before looking at the new addition to his fridge one more time.

~o~

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon waiting, which was not something he was particularly good it at.  It normally left him in a foul mood, ready to snap at anyone within sight, just for breathing too loud.  This was impossible with William around.  Every time Sherlock started to get even just the tiniest bit fidgety William would notice and then he would make some comment or other that would pull Sherlocks mind away from the less than glacial progress of the case and before he knew it a substantial amount of time would have passed while he listened to the boy tell him about caterpillars and butterflies, or about the 24hour time system as apposed to the twelve hour, or about how his dad can shoot a moving target from over eighty metres.  This fact was followed by William saying “But Bill  thaid that I’m not appothed to know that, tho don’t tell anybody” and then he attempted a conspiratorial wink.  It ended up in Williams nose looking like it was trying to mash into his eye, but Sherlock got the point.  It was a secret between Somebody called Bill (presumably the Bill Murray that John had gone through his entire Army years with) and William, and now he, Sherlock, had been pulled into their circle of confidence.  Sherlock had a feeling this was something that John hadn’t wanted William to know, so felt the need to assure the boy that John would not find out from him that his son had been made privy to something from a life pre-William.

“ _Supposed_ to know” Sherlock corrected. “And I promise, I won’t tell a soul” He assured, storing the fact that John Watson was apparently a crack shot, into the now overflowing corner of his mind palace that he had dedicated to the ex-soldier.  It amazed him how much room a single person, whom he had not even met yet, was taking up in his mind palace.  The corner he had devoted to William had spilled out into the middle of the room it was currently in and was soon going to need an entire cupboard to hold all of the new data, especially since it was turning out that William was indeed far cleverer than the internet parenting forums stated he should be.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this was a teeny tiny chapter, I have also posted chapter 10 as well.  
> Enjoy!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tantrums and Bastards and Ponds - Oh My!  
> Sherlock experiences what a real tantrum is, Mrs Hudson makes tea, William misses his dad and there is a walk to the park with ducks and a slightly amusing surprise.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took only three days in Sherlocks care for William to finally break down into inconsolable tears once more.  For the third night in a row Sherlock had slept by Williams side, keeping the bad dreams at bay so William got a peaceful nights sleep.  On the third morning however William woke up silent and sullen and refused to speak.  When Sherlock placed the bowl of the much-loved fruity-bix in front of him the bowl was pushed away, milk slopping over the edge.

“Toast then?” Sherlock asked, waiting for William to look up from under the frown that had been on his face since he woke up.  

“No” the small boy snapped, crossing his arms angrily over his chest. “I don’t want thtupid toatht.”

Sherlock suddenly found himself floundering once again.  Just when he thought he had this child care business on a straight line, William had suddenly taken a sharp turn.  He wracked his brains for any information he had gleaned on misbehaving children, which wasn’t much as William had seemed perfectly well tempered, apart from the crying and clinginess at the very beginning, so he hadn’t bothered cluttering his mind with the pointless data.  But now?  This was a whole new story.

He quickly found something, in the filing cabinet inside of his head which was full of child rearing articles, that stated that you should not give into your child’s whims.  Stand strong.  Let them know that you are the one in charge.

“Well, you need to eat something, William.” There was a slightly authoritative tone to his voice.

Sherlock had hoped that the boy would see reason, at best, but expected more sulking at worse.  What he didn’t expect was for William to throw himself off of the kitchen chair and onto the linoleum floor and start kicking his legs and flailing his arms as he screamed at the top of is lungs.

“No…No!  No toatht.  I don’t want breakfatht.   Nononononono..NO!”  

 _‘That escalated quickly’_ Sherlock thought to himself and then winced at the high pitched screaming that followed Williams repeated admissions of _no_.  Quickly he walked over and tried to stop William from lashing out before he injured himself.  What he got for his efforts was a slight punch to the chin by Williams swinging arms, so instead he drew back and thought of another way to deal with this unexpected behaviour.  Maybe a bucket of water?

Thankfully, the noise had brought Mrs Hudson up the stairs to find out the cause of all the racket.  When she saw what was happening she immediately stopped fussing and stood still, looking down and the writhing child on Sherlocks kitchen floor, a neutral, yet unimpressed look on her face.

“Make it stop” Sherlock practically pleaded to his landlady, horrified at the scene before him and at her apparent calmness over it all.  “Surely you have biscuits upon your person somewhere.”

“He’ll stop in a minute, dear.  Just you wait and see” She told him calmly, barely audible over the racket that was coming from the child at their feet and then turned and walked to the counter.  

“How are you making tea?” Sherlock balked as Mrs Hudson filled up the kettle and started spooning sugar into two tea cups.

“If you ignore him, dear, he’ll eventually stop.  Either that or he will wear himself out and fall asleep.  So long as he is in no danger of hurting himself, he will be fine.”

Sherlock left Williams side and hastily made to his landlady’s side.  “But what about me?” he hissed, still utterly disturbed as to what was happening in his flat at that moment, wincing once again as another high pitched scream left Williams mouth. 

“That is what the tea is for” she replied with a motherly smile and then turned away from him to resume making the tea.

Of course, she had been right.  Half way through the cup of tea, Williams screams turned into heaving sobs and soon after, they turned into quiet little whimpers and he curled up in a ball on the floor of the kitchen.  At this, Mrs Hudson nudged Sherlocks arm and indicated that he go talk to him.  

“What am I supposed to say?” He whispered furiously to the woman next to him.  

“Anything you want, but, you might want to eventually find out what upset him so.  In the mean time, I have to get going.  I am meant to be helping Mr Chaterjee in the cafe’ this morning.”

“Get going?”  Sherlock felt a wave of panic wash over him.  “What if he starts up again?”

“Just let him go.  We’re don’t all have endless energy stores like you, dear.  Eventually he will fall asleep, exhausted.  Trust me.  My nephew was a champion tantrum thrower.  I’ll bring up some scones when I get home, later on.”  And with that she was out of the door and heading down the stairs, leaving an unsure Sherlock and a whimpering William together, alone.

After a few seconds of hesitation Sherlock cautiously made his way down, onto the floor next to William, seating himself next to the boys head.  After a few minutes the boy shuffled closer and lifted his head so it was resting on Sherlocks knee.   
“I…I’m th.…thorry” he whispered between hitches in his breathing.  Tentatively, Sherlock placed his hand on Williams head and slowly stroked his hair.  He relaxed more as he realised it seemed to help calm the boy down.  

“It’s fine” Sherlock replied somewhat vacantly, still not sure how to handle this situation, scared it would all blow up again.  “Maybe, just don’t scream next time.  Just say you don’t want breakfast.”

There was silence in the flat, interrupted by the occasional hitch in Williams breathing as he continued to calm down.   “I want my daddy” he finally said and Sherlock felt moisture soaking through his pyjamas once again as Williams shoulders started to shake with snuffled cries.

“I know” Sherlock replied, feeling the childhood memory of not having Mycroft, the only person who has ever related to him, around.  He knew the feeling of being abandoned, whether by choice or force, by the person you thought loved you most in the world.  The only difference was, Sherlock had known when he would see his brother next.  William didn’t know where his father was, let alone when he would be back.  “I know” Sherlock repeated and the two sat there silently, William with his head on Sherlocks knee, sobbing quietly and Sherlock stroking his hair while he let William get it all out of his system.

~o~

The park had been one of Sherlocks better ideas.  Once William had finally stopped crying and had conceded to eat his now over soggy fruity-bix, Sherlock had offered to take him to the park, as the two of them had been cooped up inside the flat for three days now.  It was time they got some fresh air.  William had been practically ecstatic at the idea and rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then into the bedroom to attempt to get dressed.  Once Sherlock had straightened out Williams clothes he got himself ready and then the two of them headed out, both in winter coats and scarfs to ward of the early autumn chill.

“Are there duckth at your park?” William asked as he clumsily skipped next to Sherlock, Sherlocks hold on his hand the only thing stopping him from completely stumbling over on multiple occasions.  

“Hmm” Sherlock confirmed.  “And swans, amongst many other birds.”

“My daddy doethn’t like thwanth.  He callth them bathtardth, but I’m not allowed to thay that word.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he left it alone.  “Ducks and swans come from the same family” he said instead, leaving the illegitimate-ness of swans aside. “And a group of ducks is called a raft.”

“My Aunty Harry ith my family too” William announced, apparently not at all interested in ducks anymore.  “Thee thayth that my dad ith a bathtard too.  Thee ith not very nithe, tho we don’t thee her anymore.”

“Smart move” Sherlock agreed, deciding that for a word that William wasn’t allowed to say, _Bastard_ sure did get used quite a bit around him and a mental tally automatically started up in his head, with two score marks already next to the word _bastard_. 

“Do you have bread for the duckth?” William asked and Sherlock shook his head.  

“Maybe next time” he offered and William did this sort of squeal and jump combination that made Sherlock stop so he didn’t completely pull the boy over.  

“Tomorrow?” he asked through clenched teeth, a warped grin splitting his lips and the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Sherlocks clenched into a fist shaking with what, Sherlock hoped, was sheer joy at the prospect of going to the park two days in a row.

“I suppose so” Sherlock agreed, not seeing any reason as to why the outing couldn’t be repeated.  This was obviously the correct response as William did another little jump and then started skipping again, singing about going to the park tomorrow.

The skipping and the singing lasted only as long as it took for them to actually reach the park and as soon as they were there Sherlock led them to the pond where the ducks were.  

“Look, that one ith a tufty duck” William called, pointing to a black and white duck floating on the surface of the water.

“Tuf _ted_ duck” Sherlock corrected and watched as William looked excitedly across the water for more of the waterfowl. 

“That one ith a ruddy duck” he announced, pointing out the blue-billed duck further along the lake.  “And a pochard duck.”

“How do you know so much about ducks?” Sherlock asked as he watched the three ducks that William had correctly identify, paddle about the water.

“I watched it on the TV one day.”

Sherlock was unaware that William watched anything other than those inane cartoons that had been filling up his mornings and then he was irritated at the fact that they could have been watching documentaries instead and decided that from then on in _only_ documentaries would be watched.  That was until William tugged on his sleeve to get his attention and Sherlock leaned down so he was level with William, who placed a hand on each of Sherlocks cheeks and then looked at him with a very serious look on his face.  “But Charlie and Lola ith thtill my favourite, though” and all thoughts of cutting out morning cartoons were swept away.

Sherlock and William spent the next twenty minutes bird watching and then spotting for koi in the lake, seeing who could spot the biggest fish.  This was disturbed when a couple of teenagers came along and started throwing rocks into the water.  This resulted in both the ducks and the fish being scared away and William getting splashed with water.  Sherlock was about to give them a dressing down, announcing the fact that the fat one was short-sighted and a chronic masturbator, while the apparent emo was actually a fan of musicals and the colour orange, but he didn’t get a chance as a wildlife officer intercepted and escorted the duo off of the grounds.  When Sherlock turned his attentions back to William it was to find him wiping droplets of water off of his face with his scarf.  

“Here” Sherlock said taking Williams now damp scarf off and placing it in his pocket and then unwinding his own scarf from his neck and wrapping it around Williams.  “Use mine.”

“Thank you” William said as he tucked the ends down the front of his jacket.  He then looked to where the two boys had been and then up at Sherlock. “They were bathtardth” he announced sedately and Sherlock couldn’t find any reason to disagree with his judgement, a third tally mark appearing on the mental score board.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William has slotted himself quite well into 221 B Baker Street and it is affecting Sherlock in many unexpected ways. He may be in just a little bit of denial at how it is he exactly feels about William. Mycroft gets a slight shock and finally, there is a clue in the case of John Watson!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to Almandin for winning the 2016 Melbourne Cup today and because he won the Melbourne Cup that can only mean that today issssssss......TUESDAY!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Day six of Williams co-habitation in 221B Baker Street found Mycroft arriving to find the two occupants of the flat lying under the desk in the living room, which had been covered over by an ugly floral blanket from Mrs Hudson’s linen press.  The only indication that there was anyone underneath the blanket fort was the bottom half of Sherlocks legs sticking out of one end and the out of tune humming that was obviously coming from William, from behind the quilted, floral wall.  If those clues hadn’t been enough of a tell, then the “Piss off, Mycroft” from Sherlock, followed by the, “Yeah, pith off Mycroft” from William was a definite sign.

Mycroft made his way over to the desk-come-cubby house and, using the end of his umbrella, lifted the blanket away to reveal William idly colouring in what appeared to be a tree and Sherlock trawling through case notes that Lestrade had sent over to him that morning, pertaining to a rather intricate jewel heist.  It had only taken Mycroft twenty-three minutes to discover how they had done it, but he had told Gregory to send the file to his brother anyway, just to see how long it would take him.

“Nineteen minutes” Sherlock announced, without looking up from the file.  A brief  amused look of surprise stole over Mycrofts eyes, both at the fact that Sherlock had beaten his time and also knew what he was thinking.  “There was a smudge of lemon icing in the corner, the kind you can only get at that ridiculously pretentious bakery around the corner from your apartment.  Plus, George reeked of your cologne.  I don’t want to hazard a guess as to why he is showing you files before me, but it only took me nineteen minutes.  How did I do?”

“Four minutes better than myself” Mycroft mused, ignoring the error in Gregory’s name.  “And don’t you think that Doctor Watson will be somewhat unimpressed that you are teaching his son words that are undoubtedly inappropriate for a child of his age.”

“Trust me, I haven’t taught the boy a thing.  It appears his father is no stranger to child inappropriate words.  Apparently he even knows quite a few in various different languages as well.”

“I assume that this is not information gleaned from his files.”

“As if you haven’t read those files thoroughly.  You know exactly what is in them.  And, no.  It turns out that William here is a sponge, picking everything up rather quickly and quite easily.”  At this the boy, who was now putting birds in his tree looked up from his picture and grinned at Sherlock.  “It’s quite refreshing.  Unlike your visit.  I am certain you didn’t come all the way out here, just to see if I had figured out the file, so, what is it you actually want, or are you just being nosey again.”

At this a giggle escaped Williams mouth as he went back to his picture.

“You are quite right, I couldn’t care less if you have solved the case or not, but just out of curiosity, why are you still looking at the file if you already know how it was done?”

“Their method and execution was pure genius, it deserves to be acknowledged and appreciated” Sherlock supplied somewhat wistfully.  The mood soon dropped and he turned his glare back to Mycroft.

“If you could perhaps pull yourself from out of your little hidey-hole, I have some new information pertaining to your _other_ case” Mycroft supplied somewhat delicately, so as not upset the child lying next to Sherlock.  At the news, Sherlocks glare dropped from Mycroft and turned to William.  

“I do believe Mrs Hudson was baking again this morning.  Why don’t you go see if she can refill that tin you seem to empty at an alarming rate.”  At the prospect of fresh biscuits or cakes, the crayon in Williams hand dropped to the ground and he clamoured out from under the blanket covered table, scooting between Mycrofts legs, almost causing the man to lose his balance (much to Sherlocks amusement) and ran out of the flat and down the stairs, the Walkers Shortbread tin in his hands.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded, once William was well and truely out of ear-shot.  With a familiar sigh, Mycroft turned, letting the blanket fall back down and made his way to the red chair that sat opposite his brothers usual grey one.  

“I shan’t discuss this while you are lying under the table” he informed his brother.

“Why not?” Sherlock retorted.  “It is not as if this is the strangest place we have had conversations.”  Mycroft refused to play Sherlocks game and waited, patiently and silently for his brother to pull himself from out underneath the table and sit in his chair.

“Happy?” Sherlock snapped.

“Exceedingly” Mycroft drawled back tonelessly, sitting back to try and get  bit more comfortable in a chair that had long seen its better days.  

Once he was comfortable he looked up at his brother, ignoring the petulant scowl that was a common feature on his face, and spoke.  “The van that was used to escort Dr Watson and his son away from their homes has been located, abandoned on the outskirts of London.  I have had my men go over it with a fine toothed comb.”

“And?” Sherlock asked, a forced patience that he had almost perfected as seeming convincing, but Mycroft knew the tells.  The tapping of his index finger on the arm of his chair was the biggest one.

“Blood in the back, presumably Dr Watsons, but not any significant amount to be alarming.  Also, fingerprints, on the back of the rearview mirror.  At first they didn’t match up with anything local, so I got Anthea to dig a bit further.”

Sherlock let out a small huff of derision.  Anthea didn’t just _dig a little bit further_.  If Mycroft had set his bloodhound onto the scent then results would have been found, even if she had had to go out and personally fingerprint every male over the age of eighteen, on the entire planet.

“They belong to a Jonathan Small.  No-one of real significance, didn’t raise any red flags when he entered the country, three months ago.  Originally from South Africa, served in the army for six years before being medically discharged after stepping on a landmine and losing a leg.  Has seen a little bit of trouble since returning home, nine years ago, but only minor incidents, mainly drunk and disorderly.  One case of assault on another man, but the charges were dropped.  He was, before being invalided, engaged to a Andreea Ardalean, Romanian born, migrated to France when she was twenty-one, a registered nurse. They met while he was on leave.  Six months before he lost his leg, she disappeared in Nepal, where she was doing aid work.  The driver of the bus she was on, which she used to travel between villages, lost control and went over the edge of a cliff.  Only three out of the eight passengers were recovered.  She was not one of them.  I currently have people looking into her as we speak.”

“Do you believe there is anything to connect her to the John Watson case?”

“Probably not, but let’s not leave stones unturned.”

“No, let’s not.”

It was just then that small feet could be heard coming back up the stairs.  “I got thome chocolate chip bithcuitth” William announced excitedly as he entered the living room, oblivious to the sombre mood he had just disrupted. 

Sherlock smiled as William stopped just in side of the flat and pulled off the lid of the tin.  “Mithuth Hudthon thaid I could have one ath thoon ath I got home” and then he plucked a biscuit out of the tin and shoved half of it into his mouth, holding the tin with the remaining cookies close to his small body.

Sherlock ignored the way his stomach twinged at the sound of William calling flat B his home, just as he ignored the look his brother shot him.  The one that said he knew what Sherlock was feeling, not that there was anything to know.  It was nothing, just the stress of having a case drag out so long.  Now he had new information to work with though, things were picking up.

“I’ll need everything you have on Small and anything you find on Ardalean” Sherlock announced as a way of farewell to his brother, who got the hint and stood up, picking his umbrella up from where it rested against the armchair.

“Yes, I must be off” Mycroft announced, as if his departure was his decision to leave and not Sherlock demanding it happen.  “The country won’t run itself and I am sure you have…familial duties to perform.”

“Our greeting sentiment still stands, Mycroft” Sherlock retorted sharply, hating the smug look on his brothers face. It was his problem that Sherlock had any duties, other than his own, to tender for in the first place.  

“Never fear, brother. I will be out of the country for a week as of tomorrow morning, I shan’t be around to disturb your domestic bliss.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft” Sherlock ordered, stiffly, refusing to ruffle at the dig.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock” Mycroft replied, heading towards the door.  “William” he said, nodding down at the smallest occupant of the flat.

“Goodbye Mycroft” William sang around a mouth full of crumbs.  Just as Mycroft reached the door, though, he was stopped.  “Wait a minute” William called out and then trotted over to where Mycroft stood who was looking back at William with a mild surprised glint in his eye.

“Would you like a bithcuit?” William asked, holding the tin up to Mycroft.

For a few brief moments there was a silence so heavy, it was almost palpable.  “They are very yummy” he reassured, giving the tin a small shake, and this seemed to rouse Mycroft out of whatever reverie he was in.

“Thank you, William” and much to Sherlocks surprise he reached into the tin and pulled out a biscuit.  

“You are welcome, Mycroft” William smiled and then walked away, taking the rest of the biscuits and putting them onto the coffee table, unaware of how he had knocked the most powerful man in the country, off balance, just a bit.  It was now Sherlocks turn to look smug.

“Have a good trip, brother dear” Sherlock practically sang, and Mycroft just gave him a stiff nod in return before turning and heading downstairs, a bit less surefooted than he had been upon his arrival.

~o~

It took no time at all, after Mycrofts visit, for William and Sherlock to fall back into their routine.  Dinner, bath, half an hour of TV , teeth and then several stories before William finally dozed off.  Despite it being four nights since he had woken from his last nightmare, Sherlock still slept next to William every night.  He had now progressed to sleeping under the blankets as it was quite cold.  Unfortunately this had given William some form of unvocalised permission to snuggle up next to him during the night, curling his small form into Sherlocks side, Tom Bombadil tucked between them.

Most nights, Sherlock only slept for an hour or so, but when he woke, he was always reluctant to leave Williams side.  This then started the trend of Sherlock taking his laptop and files to his room when he ‘ _retired_ ’ for the night, that way, when he woke up from his brief nap, he could still focus on the case.  Much to his surprise, on three seperate occasions, including that first night, he had slept through to the morning.  

Another thing that had surprised him was that in the past eight days he had eaten more than he had in the past month.  Every time he fed William, (which was more than three times a day, much to Sherlocks exasperated surprise), William would wait patiently for Sherlock to sit down with a plate or bowl of food, also, expecting him to eat.  At first he had refused, not wanting the digestion to slow down his thinking process but every time he had done so, William would place a piece of whatever he was eating in Sherlocks hand and ask him to eat so he wouldn’t get sick.  The only exception to this habit was when the boy would help himself to the biscuit tin.  Sherlock hadn’t eaten so regularly since he left school.  The sudden intake of food was apparently having some form of effect as Mrs Hudson had commented on how his face wasn’t looking so drawn, and that he had a healthier glow about him, whatever that was supposed to mean.  If it weren’t for the daily walks to and around the park he would be sure his clothes would soon start to notice it as well.   This could also have something to do with the lack of chemicals he was pumping into his body.  Sherlock had held true to his word and not had a cigarette since he told William he would stop.  He didn’t know why he was keeping his promise, as he didn’t make a habit of either making promises or doing things just to make other people happy, but for some reason, every time he pulled a cigarette out of its packet Williams small voice, telling him that he would be sad if Sherlock got sick, sounded in his head and the thought of the cigarette left him feeling more nauseous than anything else, and the small cylinder soon found its way back into the box from which it had been withdrawn only seconds beforehand.  

William was, to put it plainly, an anomaly.  No one, ever, had made Sherlock do what he didn’t want to do, (rehab not being mentioned), nor had he ever wanted to leave a good impression on anyone, save for the work.  Even then it wasn’t a _good_ impression per se, rather an _impressive_ impression.  But whenever he looked at William he saw a boy very much like him, with dark curls.  He also saw the things that William had - a loving parent whom he was devoted to, a chance to be creative in his own way, a freedom to giggle and be silly.  He saw these things, knowing what it was like not to have them, and felt a determination to see that William got to keep those things.  He wanted to make sure that William never, not even for a brief moment in time, had the childhood that he, Sherlock, had had, so he did things that made him happy.  If that meant that Sherlock had to eat and sleep a bit more than he was used to, then so be it.  It wasn’t like it was a permanent arrangement.  

Sherlock ignored how hollow that thought sounded in his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And can we all guess who Andrea Ardalean is???


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares occur, midnight chats are had, impromptu surgeries are carried out and Mr Tom Bombadil has all the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very happy un-Tuesday to you and may all of you un-Tuesdays be full of good luck and happiness.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock woke to something hard smacking him in the face.  With a start he sat up, startled, a feeling of lingering unease encompassing his body, but he soon relaxed as he took in the familiar sounds and the darkened, shadowy shapes of his bedroom.  He had only been awake for a few seconds when he was hit again, this time on the hip and he looked down to see that William was staring up at him, his large eyes catching the glint of the street light shining in through the window.

“What’s the matter” Sherlock asked sleepily, his voice sounding rusty from several hours of disuse as he leaned over and flicked the lamp on.  “Nightmare?”

William shook his head.  “You had a bad dream” he said quietly.  Sherlock went to deny the insinuation that he would suffer something as juvenile as nightmares, but William continued.  “You were wriggling around and you yelled out a name and you wath crying.”  Sherlock brought his hand up to his cheek and felt that it was indeed damp, but only just.  Sherlock scrubbed the tear track away, angrily.  He didn’t remember the dream he had had, but he was certain he knew what it had been about.  There was only one person who had, since he was a young boy, invaded his dreams like a noxious weed, tainting everything it touched, and that hadn’t happened in years.  Not since rehab.  This was confirmed with Williams next sentence.

“Wath Jothua your mean boy?” He asked.

Sherlock flinched at the name _Joshua,_ refusing to let the man invade any more of his thoughts, subconscious or otherwise.  “My mean boy?” he asked, instead of focusing on a person he hadn’t thought of in years.

William nodded.  “I have a mean boy a daycare” he told Sherlock, his voice growing even smaller.  “He ith alwayth mean to me and he alwayth pickth on me.”

Sherlock was not expecting the surge of anger he felt at hearing this information.

“He ith my mean boy.  Daddy told me to not go near him and to play with the other kidth, but the other kidth alwayth want to play with Michael becauthe he hath a Ironman that talkth and hith daddy hath a really fatht, yellow car and my daddy can’t drive at all.  We catch the train.”

“Michael is an idiot.  Don’t listen to him.  And I don’t know what an Ironman is or why it is impressive that it can talk, but I can assure you that the reason his father drives a fast, yellow car is because he is overcompensating for his impotence problems.”  Sherlock clamped his mouth shut after the last deduction, deciding that it was probably a bit too much information for a four year old.

William just shrugged.  “I heard Bill tell my dad that it wath becauthe he had a small penith.”  At this Sherlock barked out a small, but loud laugh and William beamed up at him.  “Are you feeling better now?”  he asked and Sherlock nodded.  “I am, thank you William.”

William laid back down on the pillow and looked, expectantly up at Sherlock, until he too laid down.  “Here” William said, pushing something soft into Sherlocks hands and Sherlock looked down to see Williams precious orange and blue dinosaur being handed into his care.  “You can cuddle him tho you don’t have more bad dreamth.”

Sherlock was about to push the soft toy back into Williams hands, certain that he wouldn’t even go back to sleep, let alone need the comfort of a soft toy to do so peacefully, when William spoke again.  “Thometimeth I give it to my daddy when he hath a bad dream too.”

At that revelation Sherlock felt that he had no choice but to take the dinosaur and he pulled the dinosaur up to his chest and wrapped his hand around it, holding it close.

“You have to hold him right” William explained, turning the dinosaur so it’s belly rested against Sherlocks chest.  “Or he getth too pokey.”

Sherlock frowned, that didn’t sound quite right  Shouldn’t kids teddies be soft, not _pokey_.   William removed his hands from the toy and Sherlock lifted it up to get a better look at it, observing it with great care, taking in every small detail.  It was clearly not a new toy.  It was thinning in some areas from being constantly handled and a few stains decorated the orange material.  His left eye had clearly been re-sewn twice, no three times and he was in desperate need of re-stuffing.  There was evidence of several holes being restitched, careful surgical stitches making it clear that John was the one to do the mending, except for the seam connecting the second and third blue spike to the dinosaurs back.  That stitching was much older and not done by the same hand. 

“Where did you get  Tom Bombadil?” Sherlock asked, turning the toy over, looking for any tags or markings that would indicate its manufacturer.

“A friend of daddyth” he replied.  “It wath when I wath little.” Sherlock grinned at the notion of William thinking himself currently _not_ little.  “Dad thaid that her name wath Mary, but I don’t Renember her.”

“Remember” Sherlock corrected vacantly, the grin dropping from his face as this new information filtered into his brain, flitting around trying to fit into the empty spaces that he hadn’t been able to fill in relation to the case of John Watson.

He turned the dinosaur over in his hands while he observed it and then placed his hands around its middle and squeezed.  Sure enough, there was something hard in the centre of the dinosaurs belly.

“Did Tom used to make a sound?” Sherlock asked, thinking maybe it was the voice box that some toys had, allowing them to make annoying and often unrealistic sounds.

William shook his head.  Sherlock continued to poke and probe the stuffed lump in his hands.  There was definitely something in there.  Prism in shape, approximately four inches in length, one inch wide and half an inch deep.  He held the toy up to his ear and shook.  There was the faintest, dullest thunk of metal against metal, muffled by layers of wadding. Whatever it was that was in there, was not supposed to be, Sherlock was certain.

He was about to get up and take Tom Bombadil into the kitchen to cut out whatever was in its abdomen but then remembered his own soft toy, a penguin named Mr Olliphant, and how he had reacted when Redbeard had chewed off his foot when Sherlock was five, so instead he used a different method, one he wasn’t overly familiar with.  He decided to ask permission to cut the dinosaur open, but first he had to make William understand that he would get his precious toy back, all feet in tact.

“Has your daddy ever told you about the surgeries he used to do?”

William shook his head again.

“Well,” Sherlock explained.  “Sometimes a person will have something inside of them break, or something inside of them will grow, that isn’t meant to be there, and when that happens a doctor, just like your father, will carefully cut them open and fix whatever is broken or take out whatever is not meant to be there and then he sews them up, just like new again.”

Sherlock placed the toy on the bed between them.  “Mr Bombadil here has something in him that is clearly not meant to be there, and that is what has been poking you.  Would you be amenable to me taking it out?”

“Are you a doctor too?”

“Not so much, but I have watched a colleague of mine cut open and resew multiple cadavers.  The similarities in the process will be staggering, I’m sure.”

William did not look assured.  “We will only have to make a little cut, just here” and Sherlock traced his finger down the stitching, that was clearly not John’s, on Tom Bombadil’s back. “And then we can take out whatever has managed to get in his belly.  After that we will sew him back up and no more poking.  He will be as good as new.  Better in fact.”

William looked doubtful as he stared where Sherlocks finger was tracing back and forth over the old stitching and his small hands wrapped around its neck and he pulled the dinosaur close to his stomach.

“I promise.  Ten minutes, tops.  I could probably even add more stuffing so he is a bit softer when you cuddle up to him.”  The slightly anxious look that had taken over Williams face started to lift.  “You can have a cup of warm milk and a biscuit while you wait.”

That seemed to do the trick as, with the promise of the raisin biscuits which were currently half filling the tin in the kitchen,  William slowly handed Tom Bombadil back to Sherlock. 

“You promith you won’t break him?”

“As good as new” Sherlock assured him, and with a small, but nervous nod, William unwrapped his hands from around Tom Bombadil, completely surrendering him to Sherlock.

~o~

Three quarters of an hour later and Tom Bombadil was re-sewn shut, re-stuffed with the fluff from an ugly brocade cushion that had come with the flat, and was no longer pokey.  William had watched with rapt attention, while Sherlock carefully unpicked the existing stitching and then, even more carefully, extracted a small, sealed metal box from deep inside Tom Bombadil.  He had then taken delight in watching Sherlock rip into the ugly maroon and gold cushion that they had found stuffed behind his couch, pulling out the stuffing and transferring it into the orange dinosaur.  As a result Tom Bombadil was rather more rounded and a fair amount more cuddlier than before.  If the way William smiled as he snuggled up to it, back in bed, was anything to go by, it was a job well done. 

William had wanted Sherlock to go back to bed as well, but he had more pressing matters to attend to.  Like trying to open up a welded box to see it’s contents.  He had promised William that he would go to bed later, once he finished some work.  After two hours he had decided that, without leaving the flat, or handing his find over to someone else, he was not going to get the box open, so with a huff of frustration and irritation, he dragged himself back to bed and slunk under the covers.  His petulant mood shifted somewhat once a sleeping William wriggled over and curled into Sherlocks side.  Before long, he was asleep, all thoughts of the small metal box forgotten and no bad dreams haunting his slumber.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contents of the secret box of Tom Bombadil are revealed and it brings new evidence to light. And then there is a cocoon.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took a day and a half for Mycroft to get back to him with the contents of the metal box.  Unfortunately, he had had to call his brother, who was still away in Singapore doing god knew what, in order to open the box.  He had wanted to do it himself but after x-raying it at the lab in Bart’s he realised that he may risk damaging the memory stick that appeared to be inside the sealed container.  Not even Sherlock was too proud to risk destroying evidence that he was sure would lead him to John Watson.  So, his brother had sent around a minion, that was not Anthea, to pick the box up and then phoned back to inform Sherlock that as soon as they knew what was on the memory stick, he would be debriefed.  Sherlock had practically thrown a fit after hearing this, demanding that Mycroft send him the memory stick as soon as it was extracted from the container, but Mycroft had just told him to wait patiently and maybe enjoy another afternoon watching the ducks at the park with William.  Sherlock had had a full stream of words, ready to fling at Mycroft, possibly increasing the volume of Williams already colourful vocabulary, but with an “Enjoy your afternoon, Sherlock” Mycroft disconnected the call and diverted all of his phone calls to voice mail.  Sherlock had no qualms leaving several messages, telling Mycroft what a pompous, arrogant twat he was.  On the last message William could be heard in the background, agreeing enthusiastically with Sherlock.  That fact lightened Sherlocks mood somewhat and he left it at five messages and a resignation that he was going to have to wait until his controlling brother was finished going through the information on the memory stick.

So, a day and a half later and Sherlock was presented with, not the memory stick, as he was hoping, but a surprisingly slim file, apparently containing all of the information that was on the memory stick.

**I assume this is everything, that**

**nothing has been left out - SH**

The reply was instant.

**You have my word - MH**

Sherlock sat down to read through the few papers that were in the folder.

The first one was what appeared to be a bank statement to an account housing £20, 000, 000.  The account was under the name of someone called Jarj and was clearly an offshore account.

The second file was a printout of a several newspaper articles, pertaining to seven different banks being robbed, electronically, just over twelve years ago.  The amounts massed to millions of pounds being transferred from various different wealthy clients accounts to an unknown account.  Sherlock had a feeling that if he were to add the totals up it would equate something close to 20, 000, 000.  The funds were never recovered and the perpetrators were never caught.

The third file had four names on it.

  * _Jonathan Small_
  * _Andreea Ardalean._
  * _Ronald Adair_
  * _James Sholto_



It took less than a second for Sherlock to see the significance of the names.

Jonathan, Andreea, Ronald, James.  J.  A.  R.  J.   _Jarj._ The account belonged to all four of them, well, three, seeing as one of them had died in a bus accident in Nepal.

A quick internet search dwindled it down to one.  Four years ago, Ronald Adair had been killed in his home office, shot through the head from outside.  No one had formally made the suspect list, let alone been caught.  As for James Sholto; he was a major in the army, served for over twenty years before being killed while his team came under enemy fire ten years ago. 

That was it.  All that was on the file.  It wasn’t much, but it said a lot.  These four were obviously responsible for the missing money.  They stole it, did an exceptional job of covering their tracks and then left it in an offshore account, sitting there until it was safe for the four of them to access such a large amount of money without raising suspicion.  Each would get a share of £5, 000, 000.  When Sholto had been killed in action their share went up to over £6, 500, 000.  After Andreea had disappeared in the bus accident the two remaining recipients were guaranteed £10, 000, 000 each.  Sherlock had no doubts that Small was somehow behind the assassination of Adair, taking his cut up to the full £20, 000, 000.  The only problem was, he, for some reason, didn’t have access to the account details.  This is apparently where Mary Morstan came into the picture.  She must have known Small was onto her and that is when she handed the memory stick over to an unknown John Watson to pass onto his son, but _how_ did she fit into all of this.  Why was she entrusted with the account details, instead of someone from the original party, how were these five even connected?

A South American Soldier, and British Soldier, a British Accountant a Romanian nurse and a person with no background…

Sherlock shot out from his seat and strode over to where his other files were being kept, cursing under his breath at how this would be much easier if it were pinned in an orderly fashion on his wall.  After some rifling he found what he was looking for.  The file on Mary Morstan.  Picking it up he went through it one more time, still not finding anything new.  With a frustrated sigh he sent off another message to his brother.

**You need to quicken your search on**

**Andreea Ardalean, a photo at least -SH**

He paced the floor until his phone beeped out a message alert.

**I have put more men onto it - MH**

Sherlock growled in frustration.  This was going too slow.  Why was it so hard to find files on a nurse that had died not even ten years ago?  He was certain now, that she hadn’t actually even died in Nepal, but was in fact Mary Morstan.  Mary Morstan was Andreea Ardalean.  It fit.  The time fit, with the disappearance of Andreea and the sudden appearance of Mary Morstan.  Sherlock could have kicked himself for not seeing it earlier.  

He was about to go over the file, one more time, when he heard the downstairs door open and then shut again.  This was followed by William thundering up the stairs calling out excitedly “Therlock, look what we finded.”  The boy came bursting into the flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s calls to slow down and be careful, and ran up to Sherlock holding out his hands.  Cupped in his hands was a pile of leaves, and sitting in the centre was a small, brown cocoon.  “Maybe we can hatch a butterfly” he exclaimed in that quiet, excited way that he had, and Sherlock suddenly found himself caught in some of Williams excitement, temporarily letting the frustration of the case, and another dead end, slide away.

~o~

It took half an hour for Sherlock to locate the small fish tank he had, stored away in the top room, disused and no longer wanted after the experiment he had used it for had run its course, and both he and William cleaned it out and carefully laid the pile of leaves inside, placing a lamp over the small clump, keeping the cocoon warm.

“It is unusual for them to still be in the pupal stage this late in the season” Sherlock told William as he adjusted the lamp so it wasn’t so close that the cocoon would get too hot.  

“What do you think ith inthide?” William asked, gently reaching into the tank, stroking the leaf next to the cocoon.

“It’s hard to be 100% accurate, but I would guess a comma butterfly”  Sherlock told him, standing back and looking at the end results.

“Will it come out thoon?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Three weeks, tops, if it is going to hatch at all.”

This information brought a frown to Williams face.  “One time, we had eggth at daycare and one of them didn’t hatch into a baby chicken.  Daddy thaid that thometimeth there jutht wathn’t meant to be a baby chicken.  Maybe there ithn’t meant to be a butterfly?”

“I guess we will just have to wait and see” Sherlock added, thankful he wasn’t going to have a crying child to tend to when it turned out the butterfly was dead, and not emerging at all after three weeks, which was the more likely scenario.  Then Sherlock frowned himself.  That was if William was even around in three weeks.

~o~

Sherlock was pulled out of his musings, several hours later, from his phone beeping out a message.  William had settled next to the fish tank, which was tucked away in a corner on the floor, and was drawing page after page of different butterflies.  Sherlock had laid back on the couch and run over all of the information he had received, pertaining to what was on the memory stick, and correlating it with all of the information he had already filed away in relation to the case.

Pulling the phone out of his pocket he swiped the message open.

**I am sending someone over with files**

**as we speak.  In the mean time, I hope**

**this helps - MC**

Another message followed and once Sherlock opened it he instantly sat up as an image flashed up on the screen.  It was accompanied by two words.

**Look familiar? MH**

Sherlock quickly got up from the couch and once again made for the desk, rifling through the files of Mary Morstan, finally finding and pulling out her photo.  It was a match.  The photo on his phone depicted a woman with long, dark brown hair - the woman in the file was older and with blonde hair, cut so it sat around her ears, but they were definitely the same person.  

“That’th Mary” William said, coming up next to Sherlock, and pointing to the picture that was staring up from the phone, now laying on the table.  “And tho ith that” he said, pointing to the picture that lay next to the phone.  “Thee had that hair when thee gave me Tom Bombadil” he informed Sherlock, placing his finger over the woman’s hair.

“How do you even remember that?” Sherlock asked.  “You would have been a baby.”

“It wath my thecond birthday” William supplied.  “There ith a photo in a boxth in the hallway.  I found it when I wath looking for my elephant puthle.”  Again, he pointed to the picture of blonde Mary.  “But that ith her too, jutht with different hair” he confirmed, pointing to Sherlocks phone.

“What else was in the box?”  Sherlock asked, curiously.  

“Jutht thome phototh and letterth” William answered, turning around and heading back over to his pictures and the butterfly tank, sounding bored with the subject of the mysterious box in the hallway cupboard.

Sherlock thought on the information William had just given him.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit call on one of his more recent contacts.

“Lestrade” he greeted shortly after the phone was answered on the fourth ring.  “I need access to the Watson apartment again.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds the house, finds some trouble and finds John.

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is where John Watson is being held.” Sherlock thrust the deeds to the house into Lestrades hands and made for the door.  It had been here, at the flat, all along, tucked away in an old wooden box, pushed to the back of the hallway cupboard.  Deeds, to a property in Muswell Hill, along with a trust fund that paid for its upkeep, all in the name of one William Hamish Watson, set up by Mary Elizabeth Morstan.  This was her legacy to her son.  This and an incriminating piece of evidence, placed unknowingly in his possession that could have got him killed, and may possibly have gotten his father killed.  Somehow, the fact that a four year old had not only a trust fund, but also a house had been overlooked in all of Mycrofts searches.  He would be having words with his brother about the competence of his minions, although he would undoubtedly argue that their focus had been on Mary, or Andreea, and not on the small boy, and to be fair, the information they had finally gotten on Andreea Ardalean had been interesting indeed.  It was no wonder it had been so hard to find.  It was classified, and buried deep within the Romanian Governments vaults.  She had originally worked for the government as a computer expert.  Not long after, someone had seen other skills in her and then she had quickly moved up the ranks, only to be utilised as a very efficient assassin.  Her stint in Nepal had been her last assignment.  Even they had presumed her to be dead.   Nineteen months ago, something had happened that had spooked the woman that was then Mary Morstan and she had handed over all information, linking her to the Jarj account to her only child, along with the house.  Something had spooked her, and Sherlock was sure had also killed her.  It wasn’t a coincidence that three months after the transfer of the house to William, she was found dead of a supposed house fire.  The universe was rarely so lazy.

Sherlock was also certain that it was Small, who had discovered her and threatened her, killing her when she couldn’t hand over the details to their shared wealth.  

“Are you certain?” Lestrade asked, looking over the documents Sherlock had handed over to him.

“I will meet you there” Sherlock called out, not deeming the question worthy of an answer.

~o~

The taxi pulled up three houses away and on the opposite side of the street than where the house, that Sherlock was sure was holding John Watson, stood.  He paid the cabbie and got out of the car, looking around casually.  Of course the police weren’t there yet.  Lestrade was probably still at the flat, arguing with Donovan, as to why they were taking orders from a civilian.  It was a regular time waster between the two of them, one that Sherlock had grown tired of, very early in the game.  It didn’t matter.  He didn’t need them to be there at any rate.  He was quite capable of breaking into a house to get a look around without them.  In fact, it would be a lot easier without them.  With them around a stand off between Small and the police would surely happen and the end result would be a dead John Watson.  The rapidly fading sunlight was another thing in his favour as under the cover of almost darkness, Sherlock would be able to gain access to the back yard with a lot more ease.  No risk of nosy neighbours looking out and calling the police about a suspicious looking man snooping about.  It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Looking at all the windows in area, making sure there was no rustling curtains, he turned down an alley and jumped the fence, ducking through the backyard and jumping another fence to get into the yard he wanted.  Again, looking around, he made sure he was in the clear to go up to the back door.  Looking through the back windows proved that the lower floors were empty.

It took less than a minutes for Sherlock to pick the lock on the back door and he was glad to hear that whoever had been managing the property had also kept the hinges well oiled as when he opened the door it swung back silently.  Cautiously, scanning the room, Sherlock made his way into the dimly lit kitchen, noting a few dirty dishes in the sink and a depleted bunch of bananas on the bench.  It was clear that someone was occupying the property.

Sherlock looked around.  Apart from the door he had just entered there were two other exits from the room.  One was an arched door, leading to a hallway, presumably towards the stairs and the living areas.  The other door was a heavy wooden one with an old fashioned lock, the kind that came with a big metal key.  Presumably that one led down to a basement.  He was just about to head towards that door, assuming that that would be the best place to keep someone captive, when the door suddenly swung open.  Judging by the size of the man that was now standing in the doorway, a rather aggravated look on his face, Sherlock could only assume that he hadn’t been as stealthy in entering the premises as he had thought, for surely a man that size would not have come up a set of old wooden stairs silently, so presumably he had been standing on the top landing, waiting for an opportune moment to make his entrance.  Lucky for Sherlock he hadn’t been a bit more patient and waited a few minutes, otherwise Sherlock would have been even less prepared for the attack that the man suddenly launched at him.  Sherlock had mere seconds to sidestep the clumsy attack causing the bigger man to stumble.  It didn’t take long for the man to right himself and when he spun back around to face Sherlock there was murder in his eyes.  Again, he lunged, but this time Sherlock was more prepared.  Quickly darting to the right, he grasped one of the kitchen chairs by the back and swung it up and around, clocking the other man on the back of the head with as much force as he could muster.  Much to Sherlocks surprise the other man stopped and teetered for a few seconds before dropping to the ground like a sack of bricks.  Carefully, with the remains of the now splintered chair in his hands, Sherlock stepped towards the slumped figure on the floor.  He tentatively reached out and poked him with the now pointy end of the chair.  No reaction.  Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and then set to work searching the kitchen for something to tie the man up with.  In the bottom drawer he found a roll of duct tape, so set to work taping the man’s arms, and legs together, thoroughly, before standing back to admire his handy work.  

Sherlock sneered down at the man, clearly the fat man that had chased William, practically to his door, and restrained himself from giving him a swift kick to his large gut for laying a finger on the small boy, but decided that his energy would be better spent in locating John Watson, for it was adamantly obvious now that he was in the right place.  The only thing that wasn’t obvious was the location of Small.  

Pushing that problem aside to deal with later, Sherlock continued his movements towards the basement door.  Seeing as the man, who was currently lying on the floor, had come up from the basement, Sherlock assumed that that was most definitely a good place to start looking for John.  He made his way over to the door and cautiously made his way downstairs, the light from the above landing fading the further down he went.  Thankfully, it was enough to cast a dull glow over the room, and in the limited light he could make a shadow out in the centre of the room.  Fumbling around against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock found what he was looking for and as he flipped the switch a sickly yellow light burst from the bare bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling, right above the slumped man, sitting on a stool, held up by the ropes that were binding his hands above his head.

Despite the man being naked from the waist up, bloodied, bruised and swollen, there was no two doubts that it was the man Sherlock had been looking for.  He had found, John Watson.  


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rescues John. John saves his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two-for-One Tuesday.  
> You are welcome :D

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock guardedly looked around the room, making sure that there were no surprises waiting for him, but the room was sparsely furnished.  Apart from the stool, that John was sitting on, the only other thing in the room was a bench with various instruments that had no doubt been used to torture the doctor, laid out on top.  Ignoring the smell of damp mould and human waste, Sherlock moved towards the apparently unconscious John Watson.  As he got closer the neglect and abuse this man had undergone became clearer.  The photos in his apartment had depicted John Watson as a healthy, tanned, dishwater blonde man in his late thirties, clean shaven and happy.  The man before him was gaunt looking, with a dirty, scruffy looking beard and hair in desperate need of a trim and wash.  The left half of his face was swollen to the point that if he were conscious then he wouldn’t be able to open his eye.  His lips were slit and blood caked his nostrils and his hair line.  Bruises and cuts littered his body and his pyjama pants were stained with blood, and more than likely other bodily fluids.  His feet were dirty and abraded from where they had scrabbled against the rough concrete trying to find purchase, or as an unconscious reaction to the pain that had been inflicted upon his body.  As he reached the middle of the room, he cleared his throat, just to let John know that someone was approaching him, hoping to startle him as little as possible, lest the man be conscious after all.  A small flinch could be seen in the man’s shoulders, but other than that there was no reaction so very carefully Sherlock squat down in front of him.  

“John” he called quietly.  This caused a more palpable flinch from the man, with him physically pulling back as far as he could, before falling back forward again.

“John, my name is Sherlock Holmes” he informed him using what he hoped was a reassuring tone - after all, it wasn’t usually his area.  “I’m going to get you out of here and take you home to William.”

“William?” John croaked out, his voice barely above a whisper and clearly pained, the desperation at knowing about his sons welfare still evident in the only word that he had muttered since Sherlock had found him.

“Safe and well, probably finishing off a tin of biscuits as we speak” Sherlock supplied in an encouraging but hushed whisper, bringing a small semblance of a smile to John’s mouth.  He quickly slipped his phone out of his pocket and fired off a text message.

**John Watson at premises.  Need Ambulance,**

**and hurry.  Have the fat man unconscious, but**

**don’t know for how long.  Small is still missing -**

**Your immediate assistance would be appreciated SH**

‘ _What in the hell was taking them so long?_ ’ Sherlock huffed to himself, shoving his phone back into his pocket and pulled a pocket knife out of his coat pocket.

“John, I’m going to cut you down now” he told the doctor, looking over the binds, figuring out a way that was not going to send the man crashing down onto the floor.  “Can you lean on me while I cut you arms loose.  I cant hold you securely and cut the ropes without risking cutting your hands, and I’m sure you’d rather not end up on the floor.”

Something resembling a shrug twitched the man’s shoulder.  “Just do it” he rasped.  “Where ever I end up is better than here.”

Agreeing with the man’s logic, Sherlock stood up and leaned forward so John’s head rested against his abdomen, that way, when he slumped forward after his binds were cut, he would hopefully lean into Sherlock, rather than slide straight onto the floor.  Bringing his hands up Sherlock made quick work of the ropes, sawing through the thick fibres with his small blade, and in less than a minute the blade cut through and the rope fell lax and dropped away and the doctors weight leaned into Sherlock before tilting sideways.  Sherlock caught the man, just in time to stop him from hitting the floor.  Carefully he lowered John to the cemented ground, as gently as he could.

“Help will be here soon, John” he reassured the man, pulling him into a sitting position that rested him against Sherlock.  

It was just then that they heard the upstairs door open and slam shut.  “I don’t think that’s the police” John whispered, unable to produce the energy to speak louder and Sherlock could hear the fear in the man’s voice.  

Stilted footsteps moved above them before coming to an abrupt halt, followed by “ _What the fuck…_ ”

“Guess he found the fat man” Sherlock muttered looking up to where he figured out Small would be standing, because he would bet money, that it was Small who had just walked in.

“Go” John whispered, trying to pull himself away from Sherlock and failing.  “Leave me.  Get out.”

“Can’t do that, sorry” Sherlock added, stubbornly, pulling John back against his body.  “I sort of promised William that I’d find you.”  It wasn’t the complete truth.  Sherlock had never actually promised that he would find John, but William knew that Sherlock was looking for his father and may have gotten the impression over the past 9 days that he would indeed find the man and bring him home.

“Go” John tried to urge again, but it was weak and feeble and Sherlock did what he was good at, whenever sensible advise was given to him.  He ignored it.

“Or” he suggested, reaching out and grabbing the pocket knife that had dropped from his hand when he had grabbed John and placing it back in his pocket.  “We could try it my way” he said, looking around.

His best bet was to get the two of them away from the centre of the room.  Preferably somewhere where Sherlock could stop Small from accessing the knives, whips and bits of metal pole, amongst other makeshift tools that littered the bench.

“This is going to hurt, but you’ll thank me later” and then without any warning, Sherlock stood up and, gripping John under the arms and dragged him backwards, towards the bench, ignoring the pained gasps that came from the smaller man as he was pulled along.  It was as Sherlock was propping him up against the wall that someone finally started down the stairs that lead to the basement, moving at a rapid, uneven pace and just as Sherlock stood up and faced the entrance, Jonathan Small stepped into the basement.

“Who the fuck are you?” Small sneered, looking at Sherlock, and then his gaze dropped down to John before flicking back up to Sherlock.  “And how did you get in here?”

Sherlock looked at the tall, broad man before him, and instantly recognised him from the footage he had seen of William escaping from the van.  He had been the one to lean into the back of the van and apparently give John a few smacks around the head.  He had the look of someone who had something pointless and trivial to prove and the sneer he shot at Sherlock was one that screamed of a challenge.  Sherlock almost smirked at the thought of this man besting him at anything.

“Sherlock Holmes and through the door, obviously”  Sherlock answered, his typical arrogance and cockiness making an appearance, just to let Small know that he knew himself the far more superior of the two.  “Small, I assume.”

“Well done, you.  You know who I am, therefore, you must know what it is I’m after” Small sneered, clearly uncomfortable with not being as anonymous as he had thought. 

“Hmmm, yes, the Jarj account, the one that you had entrusted to your fiancé, Andreea Ardalean.”

Small physically recoiled at the statement coming from Sherlock, clearly not expecting him to know so much and clearly not at all happy about the fact.  Instead, he took his displeasure at being found out and turned it around onto something else.

“That bitch took the money and then pretended to die.  Once Sholto was gone she and that snivelling, spineless fish Adair planned everything, thinking I wouldn’t find out she was alive.”

“So you had him killed.”

Small laughs.  “No, not me.  Turns out Adair had a conscience after all.  Felt guilty about cutting me out of everything.  Either that or he wanted to get back at Andreea, or what ever she was calling herself then, for using him for all he was worth and then dumping him, so he sought me out, told me that she wasn’t dead.  It was the biggest mistake he ever made.  It wasn’t me that killed Adair.  It was Andreea.  She took everything and ran again.  Silly girl came back again though.”

Sherlock ran the times through his head.  It was William she came back for.  To hand him over to John.  

“Took me a couple of years to track her down, but I found her.  Well, Tonga did” and at this bit of information, his eyes darted up to the ceiling, to where the fatman, apparently Tonga, was still lying, unconscious.  “He’s good at that sort of thing.  She was a bit older and had changed her hair, but it was her alright.  When I confronted her, she denied everything of course, had even changed her accent, but you can’t change your voice.  That was the same, and she knew.  She knew she couldn’t hide it from me, so she tried to kill me, just like she killed that sap, Adair.  After a bit of a fight, she tripped, hit her head on a side table and knocking over a candle.  The curtains caught fire.  There was no time to get to her, lord I wanted to though, and not out of any lingering feelings of love.  I wanted to squeeze that bitch for every bit of information she had on the Jarj account.  I was going get my money but the flames moved too quick and if I didn’t get out of there when I did, I would have ended up like her.”

Sherlock stood there and let Small continue his story, because it was apparent he was going to tell the entire thing, judging by the bitterness in his voice.  He had been wronged and he wanted the world to know it.  Sherlock knew the type - too wrapped up in themselves to realise they were giving everything away, so he stayed silent and let Small fill in all the missing blanks.

“Took me a while to find out that she had had a kid.  Once I found that out, the rest fell into place.  Only made sense that the doctor would know where the money was.  Read he was a soldier, so I knew he wasn’t going to give up the information easy, so therefore, I figured we’d use the kid for leverage.  But that plan was ruined.”  The last word was shouted, angrily in Johns direction, causing the man to flinch back involuntarily.

“So me and Tonga just had to work him over extra hard, but he’s a tough one this one.  Still won’t talk.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know anything.”

“Bullshit” the man snarled.  “He knows exactly where the money is, and how to access it, and don’t for a second think that you or him are going to stop me from getting it.”

“There is no money” Sherlock told him.  “It’s all gone, returned back to where it came from.”

“LIES”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth.  As soon as the British government got their hands on the details, supplied by Miss Ardalean they set about putting it all back where it belongs.  That money is no longer in the Jarj account and, just so you know, the authorities know of your involvement in the robbery.  You can now also add kidnapping, assault and attempted murder to that list.  I hope you like small cells.”

“You lying piece of shit.  You are both lying.  You know where it is, you just want to keep it all for yourselves.  Do you think I’m stupid.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Small took a quick step forward, causing John to flinch once more.  “You say they know I was involved, but if that was the case then why aren’t the copper’s here?  You obviously ain’t the cops, otherwise you’d’ve arrested me by now.”

“Yes well, unfortunately the police feel the need to follow procedure, which does hinder their response time, but I can assure you that…”

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of  someone calling out a warning, announcing the presence of the police and then a door slamming open and again, Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Surely these things would go a lot smoother if they didn’t announce their presence on unsuspecting criminals.  This was all followed by the sound of several pairs of feet hurrying through the house, and then Lestrades voice directing some of them upstairs while ordering Donovan and Miles to follow him.

“Oh, would you look at that, the police are here” Sherlock announced blithely, looking up at the racket coming from above.  “That must mean I.  Was.  Right.”

“NO” Small yelled out, frustration and despair loudly evident in that one syllable and without warning he lurched towards where Sherlock stood, a large knife appearing in his hand, pulled from the back of his jeans.  Sherlock stepped back, stumbling over Johns leg and fell with a thump, onto his backside, and Small kept coming, baring down on them with surprising speed.  He was only a few inches away from Sherlock, knife raised to aim straight for his throat, when suddenly he stopped, the look of rage on his face dropping to one of confusion.  At the same time both he and Sherlock looked down to see a bloody hand holding Sherlocks pocket knife in his stomach.  Jerkily, the hand moved up, causing the small wound to grow and blood flowed out freely.  

“That’s for William, you sick fucker” John rasped out, and pulled the knife out, only to thrust it back in again, and then, all his energy spent, his hand slipped off of the knife he had somehow gotten out of Sherlocks pocket without the man even noticing, and he slumped back against the wall as Small flopped to the side and the sound of several officers thundered down the steps.

“Sherlock?” Came the familiar voice of Lestrade, and Sherlock only barely registered the other man, too focused on the now unconscious John Watson, the man who had just saved his life.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and William are reunited and Sherlock realises he will soon need to readjust to life without William.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock tried one last time to hold William still while he did up the last of the buttons on his shirt, while silently cursing the moron who thought it was a good idea to put such tiny buttons on items of clothing that belonged to hyperactive humans that could not navigate said buttons on their own.  He then cursed the idiot who had purchased it for William in the first place.

“I drawed a picture for my daddy” William explained, for the fifth time, as he wriggled out of Sherlock’s grasp before he had a chance to tuck Williams shirt into his trousers.

“You _drew_ a picture for your daddy, and I know.  It is of you and he at the park with apparently a trillion, billion butterflies.” 

“And Mithuth Hudthon baked him muffinth.”

“Yes, orange and poppyseed” Sherlock added, still put out that she had only baked him apple and cinnamon.  

William ran over to the fish tank and sunk down onto the floor to look at the cocoon.  Two nights ago, while Sherlock was having a standoff with Jonathan Small, the butterfly had started to emerge.  The rate of Johns recovery would determine as to whether William would be around to set it free or not.  If Sherlock was prone to such thoughts he wold see at some sort of abstract symbol of wisdom about the current events in his life, but since he thought all of that utter tripe, he viewed it as what it was - William got lucky in finding a very healthy cocoon which was ready to hatch a butterfly.  

“Do you think he will renember me?” William asked, suddenly looking around at Sherlock with large worried eyes, pulling Sherlock out of his own miserable thoughts.  Sherlock leant down to pick up Williams cardigan that had fallen to the floor while they had done up his shirt buttons, just so he didn’t give into the urge to hug the boy reassuringly.  Instead he kept his hands busy, unnecessarily folding the article of clothing while saying, “Of course he _remembers_ you.  It has only been 11 days, and how could he possibly forget you?”

Sherlock looked up to see the satisfied grin that had spread over Williams face at the reassurance and he couldn’t help but return that smile.  

Two days ago, Sherlock had followed John Watson to the hospital and then waited around, for four and a half hours, to get a report, satisfactory enough to take back to William.  It hadn’t been the best report, but the man was alive and would make a recovery.  That was all Sherlock had needed to hear, and when he came home, to find William curled up on the couch, asleep and Mrs Hudson, settled in the armchair knitting something that resembled a child sized cap, he had wasted no time waking him up and telling him the good news.  

The reaction he had got was William bursting into tears - not really what he was expecting, and they had only gotten worse when he was denied an immediate visit with his father.  The following day, John had been too doped out on pain medication to receive a visit from someone who understood what was going on, let alone a small child, so they - Lestrade and Sherlock - had decided to give it another day before bringing William to see his father, telling the boy that his father was very tired and needed to have a big sleep so he would be well rested enough to enjoy his visit with William.  At least, that was what Lestrade had told William.  Sherlock had wanted to tell him the truth, but both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson forbid it, so he had made himself scarce in the kitchen, conducting and experiment on chrysaora quinquecirrha venom, while they told sweet little lies to William.  Surprisingly, after the tears at not being able to see his father the previous night, William had been alright with it, but had sent Lestrade back to the hospital with a most delicate package.  

Last night, John Watson feasted on Mr Hudson’s macadamia biscuits and slept with Tom Bombadil.  

“Can we go now?” William asked, excitedly, running over to and climbing up onto the couch and bouncing up and down, pulling Sherlock out of his head, once more.  

“As soon as you stop jumping on the furniture” Sherlock said, putting his jacket on before holding the recently folded cardigan out to William.  “You know Mrs Hudson will have words if she sees you doing that and we don’t want to anger Mrs Hudson.”

William jumped from the couch and onto the floor, landing with a loud _thud_.  “No” he agreed, making his way over to Sherlock and allowing him to help slip his cardigan on.  “She won’t bake for uth if thee ith angry.”

“Too right, now grab your picture and lets go.”

Williams serious expression turned back into one of pure jubilation as he ran to the coffee table and plucked a brightly coloured picture off of it.  “Let’th go” he called as he flew out of the apartment, heading for the stairs.  With a small sigh, Sherlock grabbed both of their coats and scarfs off of the hook and followed him down, at a slightly more sedate pace.

While they waited for a taxi to pass, Sherlock wrestled William into his coat, before wrapping the scarf around his neck and before long they were speeding through the streets of London, towards St Bart’s hospital.  

~o~

William was barely able to contain himself as he rode up in the elevator that was taking them to the fourth floor, the floor that John was on.  He was practically quivering with unsuppressed anticipation and Sherlock had a brief fear that he was going to burst into tears again, before they even reached Johns room.  As they stepped out of the elevator Sherlock thought he would have to chase William down the hall, but, quivering or no, William took small timid steps, as if he were afraid that this was all some sort of joke that would reveal an empty room once they got to the door of room 37.  It ended up taking nearly two minutes to reach a room that should have taken no longer than forty seconds, but even Sherlock wasn’t callous enough to tell the boy to hurry up.

Once they reached the room William looked up at Sherlock nervously, his grip on the picture he had drawn for his father, crinkling in his tight grip.  Sherlock inclined his head slightly, indicating that he should go forward and biting his bottom lip, he did.  He reached up and pushed the door open and stuck his head into the room.  “Daddy?” came the quiet query and was then followed by a very loud, and more assured “DADDY!”

It took less than a second for Sherlock to find himself alone in the corridor and he hesitated for a bit as to whether he should follow William in or not.  The decision was soon taken out of his hands as William called out “Therlock, come thee my daddy.”

When he stepped into the room it was to find William, up on Johns lap and, despite being in what must be an immense amount of pain, John with his arms around his son, holding him close.

“Your beard ith tickley” William giggled, pulling his head away from Johns facial hair.  “Why did you grow a beard?”

“Thought I’d give it a try” John answered, angling his head as if showing off his now very clean, and surprisingly deep ginger beard and Sherlock noted that he sounded a lot better, despite having large amounts of drugs flowing through his body.  “Whatta ya think?”

Williams reply was to scrunch up his nose.  “No, Daddy, you look thilly.”  It was then that he turned to Sherlock.  “Doethn’t my daddy look thilly, Therlock.”

“Utterly ridiculous” Sherlock agreed with mock seriousness and William let out another giggle.  “Thee, even Therlock thays tho and Therlock ith the motht cleveretht man.”

Sherlock ignored the way his face started to warm up and instead focused on John’s reaction, expecting the man to become angry over his son calling another man more clever, despite it being undoubtedly true.  Surprisingly to Sherlock, the look on John’s face was not anger, at least, not real anger.  The mock exasperation on his face was almost comical as he replied “I thought _I_ was the cleverest man.”

“You are” William back tracked.  “But he ith too.”  At this, John finally looked up at Sherlock.  “He must certainly be.  He did find me, after all.”  Again, Sherlock refused to acknowledge how his face felt a bit warmer than before and instead asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better” John replied and sent a small, appreciative smile Sherlocks way.  “No thanks to you.”

“I mithed you tho, tho much” William said sounding sad and breaking the tension that seemed to be building in the silence that had followed Johns last statement.  

John turned his focus back onto his son.  “I missed you too” he replied, and once again wrapped his arms around William, and Sherlock didn’t miss the grimace of pain that briefly shot across Johns face.

“Why don’t you show your dad your picture” Sherlock offered, noting the piece of paper, covered in a billion, trillion butterflies, on the floor, and as he hoped it would, it prompted William to scramble off of Johns lap, unfortunately shooting another wave of pain through his body, if the facial expression John tried to conceal was anything to go by, and quickly picked up his drawing.  

“It’th me and you and all the butterflieth” William explained, standing next to the bed, rather than sitting on John and as William explained all about the cocoon he had found, Sherlock made his way over to the plastic chair in the corner and contended himself with listening to William relay practically everything he had done, the past eleven days, interjecting every now and then to fill in a blank or correct a discrepancy in Williams re-tellings..

“Did Tom Bombadil help you thleep okay?” He asked, taking a break from telling John about how hopeless Anderson was, as if John knew exactly who Anderson was…as if _William_ knew who Anderson was!

“It was the best sleep I have had in a long time, thank you very much” and John plucked the dinosaur from where it was sitting on the cupboard next to the bed and handed it back to William, who received it gratefully.

“Therlock made him not tho pokey now.”

“Did he now?”

“Yup.  He did a thur…ther…”

“Surgery” Sherlock provided.

“And he took out the pokey bokth.”

John looked at Sherlock questioningly and Sherlock gave a brief run down on how he had deduced that there was something in the dinosaur that wasn’t meant to be there.

“And you got that from different stitching?”

“Clearly not yours, or the manufacturers.” Sherlock confirmed quietly, suddenly unsure why he was uncomfortable in showing off in front of John.

“That…that is amazing.”  Sherlock looked away from John and William, hoping that his cheeks were not looking as pink as they felt.  This was apparently becoming a problem.

“It was nothing” Sherlock replied flatly, not sure what to do with all of this appreciation.  Usually he got a ‘ _piss off_ ’ for his troubles.  This was not expected.

“Yeah, very amaze…I certainly never would have thought of it.  I had just assumed it was the voice box for the dinosaur.  When William got it, there was a tag on it saying that it made ‘ _real life roaring sounds’_.  I had just assumed that I had been lucky enough to get a faulty one.  Those things are horrid, and how do they know what a stegosaurus sounded like in the first place?”  The question was ask glibly and directed at William.

“They go ROARRRR” William giggled and it was then that Sherlock realised that this was Williams life.  Him and John.  Sherlock was just a stand in until that life, which had been broken apart, could fix itself back together again.  Once John was well enough to go home, William would join him.  There would be no reason for Sherlock to see either of them again.  

Sherlock looked towards the door, suddenly wishing he could go home, but they had only been there for not even half an hour.  It would be unfair, to both John and William, to pull them apart so soon.  But that didn’t mean he had to stay in the room.  It would probably be more polite, actually, to let them have some time alone, so with that thought, Sherlock stood up, probably a bit too abruptly.  

“I’m just going to grab a coffee, let you two have…some, time” he fumbled and stepped away from the bed.

“Umm, sure” John replied, a look of uncertainty on his face as he watched Sherlock move towards the door.  “You don’t have…”  
“I could really do with a coffee” Sherlock cut in, because, yes, he really did have to.  At least for a bit.

~o~

Somehow getting coffee dragged into an hour and a half trip down to the labs and then the morgue, where Molly gave him some decent coffee from her personal supplies in her office.  When he headed back up to Johns room he did so with an extra four thumbs in a cooler bag.   

“Lunch?” John said as way of greeting when he stepped into the room, nodding down at the bag.

“Thumbs” Sherlock replied absently, noting that the room was very much lacking one William Watson.

“Well, that’s different I suppose” was the response he got from John and again, he was surprised at how unpredictable the Watson’s were.  “The nurse took him to get some chocolate milk” John supplied, answering Sherlocks obvious concern at the absence of William.

“Oh” was all he could reply and awkwardly made his way back over to the plastic chair, not sure if he was welcome without William being present, but feeling even more awkward just standing there with a bag of thumbs in his hands.

“He left about five minutes ago.  He should be back soon” John informed him and all he could do was give a short nod.  This socialising thing had never been his area, but never before had he felt this out of depth.  There was something different about John that made Sherlock unsure of how to be himself and he wasn’t at all sure how to feel about that.

Apparently John didn’t feel the same awkwardness as he continued to speak as if they were familiar with each other.  “I can’t thank you enough for all that you have done for us.  For William.  I have, honestly, never seen him so out of his shell when other people are around.  Whatever you have done with him these past days, it is nothing short of a miracle.”  Sherlock couldn’t help the warmth blooming in his chest at knowing he had done a good job with William.  No, not a good job - a _fantastic_ one and he looked down at the bag in his hands before looking up at John.

“He’s a good kid” he answered, and it was true.  Sherlock hadn’t had a lot to do with children, but the little that he had he had not been overly impressed.  They were, as a general rule, noisy, snotty, irritating smaller versions of the idiotic adults that surrounded him.  But not William.  William had actually been interesting, and he had been surprisingly easy to be around him.

“Yeah, he is” John concurred with a proud smile.  “And because of you, I get to see him continue being a great kid.  We owe you so much and I cannot repay you enough, Sherlock, for everything that you did for us. ”

He was wrong.  They didn’t owe Sherlock anything but if he did feel the need to repay Sherlock then he could maybe not take William away forever.  Would it be odd if he asked to see them every now and then?  Maybe they could catch up for coffee or at the park?  Or maybe Sherlock was just being ridiculous.  But still, Sherlock had promised to take William to the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaur display, which William amazingly had not yet viewed, but then John had been found.  Maybe, John would not be opposed to Sherlock taking them there for the afternoon.  He was about to, finally, open his mouth to mention the museum, and maybe warm his way up to asking them to join him, when the door suddenly opened and a giggling William came in, followed by a nurse, who was carrying a plastic bowl that was filled with grapes.

“Karen thaid I can have the grapeth” William beamed as both Sherlock and John turned their heads to look at him and the moment was lost.  Sherlock started to resign himself to the fact that once William left, he would go back to his quiet, practically solitary life.  He somehow thought that that thought should have been more comforting, but it wasn’t.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William finally leaves Baker Street to return to his father, Mycroft's visit reveals what he had ben up to all that time and Sherlock tries to sleep off his melancholy mood.

~~~~~~~~~~

‘ _Today is the day_ ’, Sherlock thought as he watched William devour a bowl full of fruity-bix.  Today Sherlock was going to take William, and all of the things he had accumulated during his stay at 221B Baker Street, up to the hospital and place him back into the care of his father, John Watson, whom was going to be released from the hospital.  One week exactly after being admitted to hospital he could finally take himself and his son home and they could continue their lives as if none of this had happened.  Mycroft was sending a car at ten o’clock. 

‘ _I can have my life back_.’

Well, that thought came out flatter than it should have.

Ignoring the feeling of emptiness that was starting to pool in his stomach Sherlock did another walk through the flat, looking for anything bright and colourful, dinosaur related, or small enough to fit a dwarf.  A really small dwarf.  By the time he came back into the kitchen William was standing on tiptoe at the kitchen cupboard, pushing his bowl over the edge into the sink.  Both he and Sherlock ignored the _crack_ that sounded through the loud clanging of the bowl hitting another plate that had been placed in the sink earlier.  He had to buy new ones anyway.

“Can I watch TV now?” William asked, spinning around to look at Sherlock.

“Teeth and dressed first” Sherlock instructed and the boy ran from the kitchen into the bathroom.  Sherlock sunk onto a kitchen chair and listened as William dragged the step stool up to the bathroom sink so he could brush his teeth.

“Three minutes” he called after he had heard a combination of vigorous brush, spitting and out of tune humming coming from the bathroom and Sherlock found himself already missing the domesticity of having a child in his home, even if it did mean that there wouldn’t be a fine spray of toothpaste over the lower half of the bathroom mirror anymore.  A few minutes later William stumbled into the kitchen with his jeans undone and his t-shirt on backwards, walking up to Sherlock for assistance.  Once he was righted Sherlock gave him a small push in the direction of the living room and within seconds heard the voices of Charlie & Lola nattering on in the background while William busied himself with the box of crayons Lestrade had bought him as a sort of farewell present.  Sherlock took that as his cue to go and get showered and dressed, seeing as they only had an hour left before Mycrofts car would be there to take them up to the hospital.

By the time Sherlock was ready to leave, Mrs Hudson was sitting on the couch next to William with a sheaf of papers in her hand.  William was sitting next to her with a rather large container on his lap, filled with what looked like a variety of Mrs Hudson’s home baked biscuits.  Judging by the two tins that had been on the kitchen table as he walked past she had baked extra for Sherlock as well, probably because she was heading off to her sisters for a week, but not until William had left 221 B for the final time.  

“And that one ith me and daddy on a tritheratopth” William explained pointing to the picture that his landlady was currently looking at.  “It hath three hornth.”  It must have been at that point that William noticed that Sherlock had re-entered the living room as, quickly pushing the container of biscuits onto the couch, he picked up two pieces of paper that were next to him and hurried over.  

“I drawed thethe for you too, Therlock” and he waved the bits of paper up at Sherlock.  Sherlock carefully took the pages and looked down at them.  One was of three people standing in a row, all ridiculously happy with the sun shining and the grass an odd shade of purple.  “It ith  me and you and daddy” he said proudly “And that one” he added tapping the other picture from underneath “It’th me and you with Daniel.”  Sherlock looked down at the picture of him, William and the butterfly, that had finally finished emerging from its cocoon this morning.  It had, within the first ten seconds of it’s new life been christened, Daniel.  Sherlock hadn’t asked why, but just accepted the fact and left it at Daniel.  They were going to set Daniel free before they headed up to the hospital.  It seemed everyone was leaving today.

In the picture there were two humanoid figures standing next to each other  The one with yellow curly hair was somehow bigger than the one with the black coat and although the one that Sherlock supposed was meant to be him was frowning, they both had overly large smiling mouths on their faces.  Daniel was larger than life, taking up the whole top half of the page.

“Thank you” Sherlock said quietly and turned to walk into the kitchen where he stuck them to the fridge with the eight other pictures that William had drawn him during his stay at Baker Street.

“Ith it time to go get Daddy now?” he heard William ask hopefully from behind him.  Sherlock nodded, trying to ignore the growing feeling of emptiness that was still sitting in his stomach.  Before long they had said their goodbyes to a teary Mrs Hudson, gathered up the bags containing all of Williams belongings and the small lidded cup that was holding a frantic Daniel and made their way downstairs and outside, just as a black car pulled up to the sidewalk.

“Here” Sherlock said, putting down the bags on the sidewalk and loosening the lid on the cup.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

With a grin up at Sherlock, William pulled the lid off of the cup.  It took a few seconds for Daniel to finally realise that he was free, and after slowly making his way up to the lip of the cup, he stretched out his wings and flew away.

“BYE DANIEL” William yelled, waving his hand at the butterfly, which rapidly grew smaller and smaller, the further it flew away, until there was nothing to see anymore.

“Come on” Sherlock said subduedly, nudging William towards the car.  There was only so much time he could spend in one day saying goodbye to things, and he still had more to go.”

William chatted non stop all the way to the hospital about what had happened on Postman Pat and what Daniel was probably up to and what he had drawn for Mrs Hudson and what biscuits he was going to share with his father and what ones he was going to keep for himself.  He then told Sherlock how, when he got home he was going to play with his train set.  It was then that they arrived at the hospital.

Upstairs John was just receiving last minute care instructions from his doctor and signing the release forms.  He stopped when they entered and beamed at William who ran to his father and all but jumped up onto the bed to sit next to him.

“We are going home today” he told John happily and John ruffled the boys hair with the hand not wrapped in a bandage.

“I know” John replied and then he looked up at Sherlock who had managed to pull his usual mask of indifference over his face, despite the roiling motion in his lower abdomen.  John, while still not looking 100%, was looking better.  There was minimal swelling and all bruising on his face and hands had faded to yellow.  The beard had gone, three days ago, when his face didn’t hurt so much to touch and had stayed gone.  It was a vast improvement.  It took years off of his face.

 “Thank you for everything you have done for us” John said to him, pulling Sherlocks attention away from his appearance.

“Think nothing of it” Sherlock replied.  “It made for a very interesting case.  I should be thanking you.”  Sherlock tried for aloof and a bit of humour but it fell just the wrong side of passable and came out rather tight.

A small, unsure smile flitted across Johns mouth.

“Can Therlock come and play at our home? I can thow him my trainth.” William asked, tugging on his fathers sleeve.  An uncomfortable silence fell across the room.

“I don’t think…” John floundered, obviously trying to say something he didn’t think would offend the detective.

“I think maybe you should spend some time with your father” Sherlock said, saving the doctor from having to find a kind way to not invite Sherlock around.  It was obviously a good thing that he hadn’t managed to ask to meet up again.  “I am sure you both have a lot of catching up to do.”

William looked up to Sherlock with large, sad eyes and Sherlock had to avert his gaze in order not to mirror the look back.  “Maybe another day?” he asked quietly and Sherlock gave a short nod.

“Another day” he lied, not something he was unaccustomed to.  What he was unaccustomed to was the tight feeling in his chest that came from lying to the boy.  He pushed it aside to deal with later and turned his attention to John. “There is a car, waiting downstairs to take both William and yourself home.  All of Williams belongings are inside.  It will be hard to miss” he added with what he hoped was a small, yet helpful smile.  He had a feeling it probably came off as sour looking but due to the fact that he would not be seeing either of the two people before him again, it probably didn’t matter what his face portrayed at that moment.

John Watson stood up from the bed and helped William off as well and then walked towards Sherlock.  “Again, thank you so much.  I don’t know where either of us would be if it hadn’t been for you” and he held out his hand.  In a rare display of polite human interaction, Sherlock took the offered hand and shook it.

“Again, think nothing of it” he said and then looked down at William.  “You make sure you look after him, okay?”

William just nodded and then without warning he flung his arms around Sherlocks legs in an uneven sort of embrace, holding on just as tight as he had that first day he had wandered into Sherlocks life.  “Thank you Therlock” he mumbled into his trousers and then pulled away after Sherlock mimicked his fathers earlier actions and ruffled his hair.

“Well” John said after another moment of awkward silence, “We should probably get going.”

Sherlock just gave a short nod and stepped aside from the doorway, where he had been standing the whole time, and opened it for the solider and his son.  

“Goodbye, Doctor Watson, William” he said nodding down at William, who waved slowly up at him, and then picking up his bag with his good hand and one final smile, John and William Watson walked out of Sherlocks life for the final time.

~o~

Back at the flat Sherlock had changed from his suit, back into his pyjamas - much more comfortable attire for mulling over ones depressing thoughts - and laid on the couch staring up at the ceiling.  He was well and truely lost in his sulk when he heard a polite cough at the door to announce Mycroft’s unannounced but predicted arrival and without waiting for an invitation his brother walked in to the living room and sat down in Sherlocks chair.

“I see you have your life back to yourself again” came his brothers emotionless drawl.  

Sherlock didn’t answer.  Mycroft knew that William had gone home today.  He also knew that Sherlock had become somewhat attached to the boy, so therefore he was here to gloat for some reason or other.  Quite possibly to remind him that caring is not an advantage, _blah, blah, blah_.  Sherlock couldn’t be arsed listening to it today so he closed his eyes, brought his hands up to steeple under his chin and said “Go away Mycroft.”

For a full two minutes there was silence and then his brother felt the need to make himself heard, because he apparently couldn’t help himself, and spoke.

“At the beginning of all of this you asked what could possibly have possessed me to think that you looking after a child was a good idea and I answered with ‘ _Would you believe that I just have the boys best interest at heart_ ’.”

“Hmmm.  I still don’t believe you were thinking about his welfare at all.”

“I never said which boy.”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at his brother, who was looking back at him, all traces of his usual haughtiness and disdain gone, replaced with one that could be construed as caring, if all parties in the room didn’t know Mycroft.

“When I saw that boy, in your arms, I saw you, many years ago, huddled up to me looking for similar reassurance and I saw in you all the ways you could help him that I was unable to do for you.”

“You could hardly be blamed, Mycroft.  You were at boarding school most of the time” Sherlock huffed, looking back up at the ceiling not sure what to make of the sudden change in his brothers usually unbreakable ice man persona.  All though Sherlock had seen Mycroft get angry and laugh and had, unfortunately seen him in the throes of passion (he now never barged into Mycrofts personal spaces unannounced…professional ones only), this was something all together different.  This was a side of his brother he hadn’t seen since he was a very young boy and it unsettled him, mainly because of the memories it brought back.  Memories that William himself had managed to drag up also.

“Who’s fault it was is hardly the point” Mycroft continued.  “The point is you were young and lonely and scared and there was no one for you once I left and Redbeard passed away.  So was William, that day he stumbled into your home, he was alone and I saw that as a chance for you to make this opportunity work for you.”

“So what, you suddenly believe in fate now?”

“Good lord, no” and there was the Mycroft that Sherlock was comfortable with.  It didn’t last long before he dropped back into his new caring role.  “No, I believe that William gave you a chance to help him and in doing so, helped you push aside those insecurities that you built up as a child because of harsh words and actions not only carried out by your peers at school, but also by our parents.”  
“I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft” Sherlock sulked, instantly trying to dismiss everything his brother had just uttered.

“No” Mycroft replied, suddenly deciding that the conversation was drawing to an end.  Standing up he retrieved his umbrella.  “But while scars can be carried from our childhood, it doesn’t mean that they cannot heal.”  

Once again, Sherlock looked to his brother who had moved to the door by now.  All looks of caring and youthful memories gone.  Now there was something akin to smugness on his face.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment to keep.  As much as I do enjoy our occasional heart to hearts there is a certain Detective Inspector whom I promised to take out for dinner.”

Sherlock groaned, rolling towards the back of the couch, trying not to think about _his_ brother with _his_ Detective Inspector.  “Too much information, Mycroft.”  He was answered by the sound of his brothers feet moving down the stairs and a deep chuckle coming up them.

Once he heard the front door shut he rolled back onto his back and continued to stare up at the ceiling.  His brother, as usual, had been right.  Sherlock had seen himself in William and he had felt the need to make sure William hadn’t experienced all that Sherlock had as a boy, even in the brief time he had had William with him he had managed to do something right.  John Watson had told him that he hadn’t seen his son so out of his shell before, and Sherlock had felt a surge of pride warm his body.  So why did he feel so miserable now.  So…lost.  

He should be content.  The case was solved, everyone was alive, he no longer had to sit through inane children's cartoons and he no longer had to think about food three times a day, not to mention, his bed was his own again.  Life could go back to what it was before and it was good before.  

Sherlock rolled back into the couch and curled up.  Maybe he could sleep this feeling of uneasy melancholy off. Maybe what he was feeling was just the coming down off of a _slightly-more-personal-than-normal_ case.  Yes, that must have been it, so Sherlock pulled his dressing gown around him tighter, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to adjust to life post William but it is taking longer than he thought. It is a good thing he gets a couple of visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter, and what a wonderful journey it has been with it all, but as some of you may have noted, it has not quite come to an end just yet.  
> I have decided to turn this int a series, journaling the growing relationship between Sherlock, John and William. It will be mainly one shots, and mainly cracky fluff - or fluffy crack, an while the next instalment of the William Watson Case Files will probably not come into light until the new year (which isn't too far away now) know that it is coming!  
> Again, thank you all for following this story. You have been a wonderful audience. Hugs to you all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Delete.” _Click_

“Delete.” _Click_

“Delete.” _Click_

 _“……_ Delete.” _Click_

_‘Good, was there no-one interesting carrying out heinous acts anymore?!’_

Sherlock groaned as he opened up the next email.

**Dear Mr Holmes,**

**My mother has been in a nursing home for three months now and gradually, her clothes have been dis….**

“Delete.” _Click_

He went through four more emails like this before one caught his eye.

**Dear Mr Holmes,**

**I live in a town called Farsund in Norway.  When my cousin, who is a resident of London, heard of my plight his first thoughts turned to you.  You see, I own a small antikk store here, in Farsund and just two weeks ago, something strange indeed happened.**

**It all started when last month a small journal came in to my possession, less than a dozen pages filled out.   The book itself would be of little value but, as it turns out the journal had indeed belonged to Magdalene Sophie Buchholm, an 18th century Norwegian poet - in fact, the only recognised female, Norwegian writer of the time. The book has been verified as being authentic and I placed my own valuation on the book and had several other colleagues of mine also place a value on it, deeming it worth 19,579 kr.  The book was placed in my vault two Thursdays past.  Only I and a colleague of mine, who is currently in South America, have access to the vault, which is air tight, but somehow someone managed to get into the vault and remove the journal.  When I came into work on Friday morning, the book was gone.  Our security footage shows nothing.  The local constabulary have also come up with nothing so far.**

**The book is far from the most valuable item in our store, but it is most certainly one of the most interesting and I would dearly love to know what has happened to it, if not for return to our store, than to at least know it is in good hands.**

**My cousin speaks highly of you and I do hope that we can interest you to come our way, all expenses paid of course, to help solve this small problem of ours.**

**I do look forward to hearing from you, Mr Holmes.**

**In the mean time, I wish you well.**

**Sonja Undset**

Sherlock re-read the email.  A locked room mystery.  He did like those.  Quite a lot. But it was in Norway.  Which was not London.  As a general rule Sherlock hated most places that weren’t London.  

Sherlock wriggled on the couch, trying to get the blood flowing in his legs as they were starting to loose feeling, seeing as he had been sitting there for over an hour, when something jabbed him in the back of the thigh.  With a wince and a scowl he leant over enough to squeeze his hand under his leg and reach whatever it was that was poking him. 

It was a dinosaur.  A green diplodocus to be exact, four and half inches long and made from standard acrylonitrile butadiene styrene.  

Sherlock frowned down at the little dinosaur face staring back up at him.  He thought he had found all of these.  It had been a month; four weeks; 32 days since he had said farewell to William and John at the hospital.  One month for his life to get back to what it had been, only, it hadn’t.  After a week and a half he had found over a shopping bag full of things that William had left behind.  It had been handed over to Lestrade, who had promised to make sure they made their way back to William.  Sherlock had thought that was the last of everything.  Williams pictures had been taken off of the fridge and put in the bin.  Not even two minutes later they had been taken out and put in between two journals in his bookshelf.  There were currently three boxes of fruity-bix in his cupboard - berry, apricot and honey flavoured - all at various stages of emptiness, as Sherlock had taken to having breakfast _every_ morning (or afternoon, depending on what time he got out of bed) and he still hadn’t managed to delete ‘ _Timmy Time’_ from his mind palace, as was evident three nights ago when it played on loop for over two hours while he was actually trying to get to sleep.  Then there was the smoking.  Three weeks ago, Sherlock had reached for his cigarette packet for the first time since he promised William he wouldn’t smoke anymore.  It was on the third inhale that he realised that it wasn’t really doing anything about the stress that he was undergoing due to the stupidity of Lestrades latest team member.  He had continued to smoke it anyway and by the sixth puff, he was starting to feel ill.  He had put it out and not lit another one for four days, where he went through the same process.  Since then he had continued to try smoking again, but it was always the same.  

William was apparently still in his head and Sherlock needed him gone.

He had never been to Norway.  It may possibly be quite enjoyable.

~o~

Sherlock looked over the draft email one more time and re-read it, the cursor on his computer screen hovering over the send button, but his finger not clicking on the mouse pad.  Maybe this was too rash.  Surely he should think, more than two hours, about whether he actually wanted to go all the way to Norway or not for something that, although did sound intriguing, was probably no more that a good six.  Barely a seven, at a push.  With a sigh he slammed the lid shut and reached for the cigarette packet one more time, only to find it empty.   It was right then that the doorbell rang downstairs.  

Not Lestrade.  The button was pushed for too long. 

The bell rang again, this time only for a small burst.  Definitely not Lestrade.

Mycroft never bothered with such pleasantries, such as waiting to be invited into the flat, so it wasn’t him either.  

Mrs Hudson wasn’t expecting anyone as she was telling Sherlock just that morning that she had a quiet day in, one that she was looking forward to, (aka - the day she makes her herbal soothers), so it wasn’t anyone calling for her.

A client then.  Sherlock groaned.  It was bound to be someone dull and uninteresting and extremely frustrating.  Not someone Sherlock wanted to deal with right now, especially since he didn’t have any cigarettes to fall back on, even if he couldn’t get through a full one these days.

He got up to go slam the door shut, a clear indication that he did not want visitors of any sort, just as Mrs Hudson opened the door to his unwanted visitor.

“Mithuth Hudthon” came the very familiar and even more unexpected voice of William and Sherlock froze, his hand on the door, ready to swing it shut.  But he didn’t swing it shut.  He stood there and listened to Mrs Hudson greet William.

“And you must be Doctor Watson” She greeted warmly, obviously turning her attention to the man who had brought William back to Baker Street.

“John, please, and yes.  It is finally nice to meet you.  I do believe this belongs to you” came the sound of Johns genial voice, floating up the stairs.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered” she admonished in that friendly motherly manner of hers and Sherlock could only assume that John had come over to return Mrs Hudson’s Tupperware container, which had been full of biscuits for the still healing doctor and his son, the last time Sherlock had seen it.  

“Do you have any more bithcuitth” Sherlock heard William ask hopefully and he couldn’t help the smile from tilting his lips up, even as John replied with “William, manners.”

“Why don’t you head on upstairs and I’ll see what I can do” Mrs Hudson told him, and before she had even finished small feet were thundering up the stairs, ignoring the “William, slow down” coming from a slightly exasperated John.

Sherlock had a total of 5 and a half seconds to go back to his chair and sit in it with his laptop on his lap, acting as if he hadn’t just eavesdropped on that entire conversation before there was a small figure standing in the doorway.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, which was actually still closed and facing the wrong way, to see William standing, looking at him with a ridiculously wide grin on his face.

“Therlock” he giggled out in greeting, running across the room, not bothering to be invited (not that he would ever have to) and scrambling up onto Sherlocks lap, giving the man mere seconds to move his computer from out of harms way, on the floor next to his chair.

“William, you can’t just run into someones house” John said as he made it up to the landing, sounding more resigned at the fact that he was probably wasting his breath, and Sherlock took in his appearance as he frowned down, with no real anger, at William from the doorway where he had stopped, presumably waiting for an invitation into Sherlocks home (again, unnecessary).  He looked much better. He had put on weight again, and the swelling and bruising had completely gone away.  He still held the cane in his left hand but his right was no longer bandaged and his hair was cut and brushed into something resembling the style of his military days.

“It’s fine” Sherlock said, still a bit thrown at the fact that both John and William were here.  At his home.

“Look” William said, pulling Sherlocks attention away from the man in the doorway and Sherlock looked down to see that one of his bottom teeth were gone.  

“You lost a tooth” Sherlock observed unnecessarily.  William nodded.

“Michael got angry ‘cauth Brian wanted to play with me inthtead of him, tho he hit me with hith Ironman and my tooth fell out.”

“He hit you with an Ironman?” Sherlock asked, appalled at the gaul of this little shit, that he had never met, for daring to even think about directing any sort of violence William’s way.

“And then Brian kicked him in the ouchy partth.”  The grin that William shot Sherlock told that he wasn’t as upset at being smacked in the face, hard enough to lose a tooth, as he was entertained at the thought of Michael being kicked in the bollocks.  

“Michaels dad is also expecting a letter from my lawyer any day now” John added, still from the doorway.  

“Sit down, John” Sherlock gruffed out, as way of invitation.  “And you’re really suing?”

“God no.  I avoid lawyers whenever possible” John brushed off as he made his way, not to the couch as Sherlock had predicted he would, but to the red arm chair - which Mycroft threatened to have thrown away on a regular basis - right across from Sherlock. “But the man is a pretentious prick.  I figured a bit of sweating wouldn’t kill him.”

“I could have it arranged, making him sweat, if you ever needed it” Sherlock offered lightly, thinking that a night in an undisclosed holding cell might certainly be justifiable. “I know people.”

“Ah, yes.  The Umbrella Man” John frowned and Sherlock scowled.  Of course his idiot brother had interfered - he couldn’t help himself.  “Seems he has a weird obsession with vetting everyone his partner comes into contact with.”

“Anthea?”  Sherlock queried, thinking it odd that John had had anything at all to do with Mycrofts assistant.

“Greg” John offered and Sherlock was even more confused.  “Yeah, he said you would do that” John smiled.  

“Do what?” Sherlock all but snapped.  

“Your eyes glazed over when I said Greg” John explained, his smile growing. 

“He ith talking about Graham” William whispered helpfully and it took a few seconds to realise that they were talking about Lestrade and then it took another second to register Johns use of the word ‘partner.’  A sour look took over Sherlocks face.  He tried not to acknowledge his brothers relationship very often as both he and Lestrade always seemed rather smug about it.

A chuckle left John’s mouth, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts on his brother.  “He said you’d do that too.”

“How much do you two talk about me?  And how do you even talk about me?  You’ve met, what, twice?”

“Several times” John supplied.  “You sent him to our house with all of Williams things a few weeks back, and we got chatting.  He’s a nice guy.”

Sherlock gave a small sniff.  Of course he was a nice guy, it was why Sherlock liked him, but he wasn’t going to tell Lestrade that.  

“Anyway, we didn’t actually come here to talk about Lestrade, or your brother” John told him.

“No, you came to return Mrs Hudsons Tupperware container” Sherlock said, the thought that he was an afterthought pulling him back to his previous mood from before he had heard Williams voice float up the stairs.

“Wait, how…” John stated, but William cut him off.

“No, thilly.  We come over to athk if you wanted to go to the park.”  

Sherlock looked from John, who had a small, odd smile on his lips, to William, who was looking up at Sherlock with those wide, round eyes that Sherlock couldn’t say no to.

“The container was just an excuse in case it turned out that this was overstepping some boundary.”

“No” Sherlock said, and the second Williams hopeful face fell into one of crushed, disappointment Sherlock saw his mistake.

"It wasn’t an overstep” he corrected.  “And I suppose a trip to the park would be a pleasant change of scenery.  Nothing too interesting has happened these days.”  (Or weeks.)

The smile that lit up Williams face was bright enough to power all of Baker Street, he was sure.  “Come on then, letth go” William said excitedly, rushing to the door, and pulling on Sherlocks scarf so it slid off the hook.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to get ready, pulling on his coat and scarf, and making sure he had his phone and keys, and before long the three of them were heading down the stairs, first William and John, with Sherlock trailing in the back, all thoughts of Norway, gone.

“I was wondering if you could maybe clear something up for me?”  John asked as they headed down the street, in the direction of the park, both John and Sherlock on either side of William, each holding one of his hands.

“I can most certainly try” Sherlock answered.

“William said that something happened down at the park.  Something he can’t say, I was just curious, is all.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering what on earth John could be on about, when his and Williams first trip to the park came to mind.  “Oh, yes.  That would have been the bastards” Sherlock supplied and John just responded with a thoughtful “Huh, so there were swans then?”

William took that moment to shout “Jump” and then lifted both of his feet off of the ground and Sherlock had to instantly tighten his grip, so Williams small hand didn’t slip out of his.  Obviously, John was used to this, as his step didn’t even falter, despite his gait being uneven, due to the use of a cane. 

“No, not quite” Sherlock supplied, once he got his balance back and prepared for the next “ _Jump_ ” and as they continued down to the park Sherlock proceeded to inform John about the teenagers and about how impressed he was with all of the foreign swear words William knew.  He was very pleased that John didn’t seem the slightest bit abashed, and Sherlock found himself pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to fit in with the easy, comfortable life that John and William had created for themselves.  It made it much easier to ask them out to dinner after their trip to the park, even if it was done somewhat awkwardly and it also made it more gratifying that John and William both eagerly accepted.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if the lisped words are hard to interpret, if need be, I can add translations at the end of each chapter. I did try to use words with minimal or no S's, but sometimes it was just not possible, especially when talking from a child's POV.


End file.
